As they continue discussing the prisoner, I slip away, needing space to process this development. The clubhouse suddenly feels confining, the walls pressing in with memories I've worked to compartmentalize.
Outside, I find Miranda sitting on a bench in the compound's small garden area—a patch of green the club maintains for reasons no one clearly articulates. Her face is turned toward the afternoon sun, eyes closed as if absorbing its warmth.
"How are you holding up?" I ask, joining her.
She opens her eyes, offering a wan smile. "Better here than in a shipping container headed overseas." The gallows humor is something I recognize—a survivor's coping mechanism.
"True enough," I agree, matching her tone.
We sit in companionable silence for a moment before she speaks again. "The raid tomorrow... do you really think it'll work?"
"Yes," I say with conviction I genuinely feel. "The Saints Outlaws know what they're doing. Those women will be free by this time tomorrow."
"And then what?" she asks, voicing the question that haunts many survivors. "Freedom sounds beautiful until you realize you don't know how to live it anymore."
I consider her words carefully. "You rebuild. One day at a time. Find purpose beyond just surviving."
"Like you have?" Her gaze is searching, hopeful.
"I'm trying," I admit. "Some days are better than others."
As we talk, my mind keeps returning to the captured Reaper, to the phrase "debt collection program." To the questions that have haunted me for weeks about why I was taken. Was it truly random misfortune, or something more deliberate?
Night brings no peace. I wake gasping from a nightmare where faceless men discuss my value in cold, transactional terms. The dream isn't imagination—it's memory, fragments of conversations overheard during my captivity.
"The debt's been paid, but she's premium merchandise. High return on investment."
"Kane wants updates on this one specifically. Says it's personal."
"Keep her in rotation but unmarked. Special client requests only."
I sit up, switching on the lamp beside my bed. The digital clock reads 3:17 AM. My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline making sleep impossible.
These weren't random comments. They were specific, suggesting my captivity wasn't just an unfortunate circumstance, but deliberate selection. Kane—the name keeps surfacing. Marcus Kane, former president of the Kings of Purgatory. The man connected to Falcon's past conflict.
The realization solidifies in my mind: I need answers before I can fully move forward. Not just for closure, but for tactical understanding of our enemies.
By morning, my resolve is set. After breakfast, I find Maggie in the kitchen, helping prepare supplies for the warehouse operation.
"I need your advice," I begin without preamble. "About facing what scares you."
She sets down the first aid kit she's assembling, giving me her full attention. "What's on your mind?"
"The Reaper they've captured. I want to question him myself."
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't immediately discourage me. "About your abduction?"
I nod. "There are too many coincidences, too many specific comments I remember. I think I was targeted deliberately, not randomly trafficked. And I think he might know why."
"That's a hard conversation to have," she observes carefully. "Facing someone connected to what happened to you."
"I know. But I keep thinking about tomorrow's operation, about what we're walking into." I meet her eyes directly. "How can I help those women if I'm still running from my own truth?"
Maggie considers this, her expression thoughtful. "When I finally confronted one of my captors in court, it was the most terrifying thing I'd ever done. But also the moment I truly began to heal." She reaches for my hand. "If you do this, do it for yourself—not because you think it will make you stronger for others."
"It's both," I admit. "I need to know, and we need the intelligence."
"Then the next question is how to convince Falcon to allow it," she points out. "He's not likely to agree easily."
