Page 27 of Monk

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The room was silent.

Kansas looked at me, his eyes searching my face for any hint of doubt or hesitation. “Are you good with this?”

No, I wasn’t good with it. Not even close. I was scared—scared for Abigail, for my cover, for everything I’d spent yearsbuilding out of lies and careful restraint. Every promotion, every scrap of trust they handed me, was just another chain cinching tighter around my throat. But I nodded anyway and kept my face still. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m good.”

Kansas exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he leaned back in his chair. “Alright. Meeting adjourned. Get some rest, brothers. We’ve got a lot of shit to figure out tomorrow.”

The brothers filed out, one by one, their boots heavy on the wooden floor. Whisper clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. Widow gave me a nod. Ashe didn’t look at me at all. The room emptied gradually until it was just me and Shadow. The silence settled in like dust.

Shadow looked at me across the table, his eyes hard and knowing. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away. The question hung between us while those silver-gray eyes pinned me in place. “You know this is gonna get messy, right?” he said finally. “Montana’s not gonna let it go. The Federation’s not gonna let it go.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still gonna do it?”

I met his eyes. “I don’t have a choice.”

Shadow studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Fair enough.”

He stood, turned to leave, then paused. “For what it’s worth, Monk—you’re the right choice. You know what you have to do now, don’t you?”

I sat there, staring at him. Waiting for him to elaborate.

“WITSEC. Time to choose, brother. Can’t live in the shadows and be VP.” He walked out, leaving me alone again.

He was right. I had to choose. I couldn’t keep one foot in each world anymore. Not with what was coming. Not with the weather turning black on every horizon.

I sat there in the silence, feeling the weight of the VP patch settle over me like a shroud. Pence was dead. Our tie to the Federation was gone, hacked clean through. We were on our own now—no backup, no allies, no safety net. And I was second-in-command of a club standing alone at the edge of a war. The question wasn’t whether it was coming. It was when. And what it would leave of us when it was done.

I stood, my legs heavy, and walked out of the church room. The clubhouse was quiet now. Most of the brothers had gone home or crashed in back rooms. The bar was empty, and the lights were dim.

I grabbed my keys and headed for the door when my phone buzzed.

James Roberts.

Again.

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the answer button. If I picked up, I’d have to lie. Tell him everything was fine. Tell him nothing had changed. But everything had.

I was VP now, and that painted a bigger target on my back than ever.

The phone stopped ringing. I shoved it back into my pocket and stepped out into the night. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the stars looked like broken glass scattered across black velvet.

I climbed on my bike, fired the engine, and rode because sitting still felt too much like waiting to die.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Monk

The Bent Fork Café sat on the corner of Gore Boulevard and 38th Street, a squat brick box with faded yellow awnings and a neon sign that flickered like it was dying. The parking lot was half-full—lunch rush bled off, dinner crowd not in yet. Good. Fewer eyes.

I rolled my bike into a spot near the street, killed the engine, and sat there for a beat with my eyes on the café door. The glass threw back a warped reflection of me—patches, ink, hard mouth, dead stare. A man about to cut himself loose or hang himself trying.

Shadow and Blackjack pulled up on either side of me, their engines rumbling in sync before cutting out.