Page 21 of Monk

Pence is dead.

The words echoed in my skull, over and over, like a drumbeat I couldn’t escape.

Montana had executed him. Put a bullet in his brain without hesitation, without mercy. And Kansas—Kansas had just stood there, frozen, unable to stop it.

Unable to save his best friend.

I cranked the throttle harder and felt the resistance give under my hand, the bike surging forward like it wanted distance as badly as I did. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. The needle swept higher while the world around me smeared into motion—fields, fences, and weather-beaten farmhouses bleeding together in streaks of green, gray, and white. The wind roared in my ears and shoved at my chest, but I leaned into it until man and machine felt like the same thing. Every crack in the asphalttraveled through the bars into my arms, a rough conversation between the road and my bones.

But I couldn’t outrun this.

Couldn’t outrun the consequences.

The Marshals would hear about this. They always did. A VP executed in his own clubhouse wasn’t the kind of bloodshed that stayed buried. There’d be an investigation—local cops first, maybe the Feds after that. They’d dig into the club, pull records, knock on doors, and ask questions nobody wanted asked. And if they dug deep enough, sooner or later they’d get to me.

John Smith. The sergeant at arms who didn’t exist before 2010. The ghost with no past, no family, no history.

Except Ididhave a past. And a family.

I had Abigail.

My chest tightened, my hands gripping the handlebars so hard my knuckles went white.

If the Marshals found out I’d violated WITSEC—that I’d stood in that room, watched Pence die, and done nothing—they’d tighten the leash until I choked on it. They’d use this to drag me deeper into their web, make me inform on more than the club, make me sell out every brother under our roof.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Iwouldn’tlet that happen.

But what choice did I have?

Pence was dead. Montana had pulled the trigger.

And Kansas did nothing.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I ignored it and leaned into a curve, the bike tipping low enough to scare the hell out of most riders. Asphalt rushed beneath me as I hugged the turn, the tires gripping hard with that familiar, trustworthy tension. I’d been riding so long it felt older than memory. The bike answered every shift in my weight, every pressure of my hands, like it knew me better than mostpeople ever would. The road was a language, and it was one I spoke without thinking.

The phone buzzed again.

And again.

Finally, I slowed, pulling off onto the shoulder of the highway. Dust kicked up around my boots as I killed the engine and yanked the phone from my pocket.

Three missed calls. All from Trigger.

I called him back.

He answered on the first ring. “Monk. Where the fuck are you?”

“Riding,” I said, my voice flat. “Needed to clear my head.”

“Yeah, well, you missed the fireworks.” Trigger’s voice was tight, edged with something that sounded like fear. “Kansas lost his shit after you left.”

I closed my eyes. “How bad?”

“Bad. He kicked Montana and Reaper out of the clubhouse. Told them the Diamondbacks don’t answer to the Federation. Said we make our own fucking rules.”