Page 30 of Monk

Roberts stared at me for a long moment; his face twisted with anger and something that looked almost like disappointment. Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The bell chimed.

And then there was silence.

I sat there staring into my coffee while the weight of what I’d just done settled over me. And then, slow as dawn over bad ground, I started to smile. Because for the first time in my life—for the first time since I was eight fucking years old—I was free. No handlers. No check-ins. No living with the Marshals’ hands around my throat, waiting for them to yank me out, relocate me, take Abigail away.

I was done.

Shadow appeared at my side, sliding into the booth across from me. “That went well.”

I laughed—a short, sharp sound that felt strange in my throat. “Yeah,” I said. “Smooth as hell.”

Blackjack joined us, dropping into the seat next to Shadow. “He’s gonna come after you.”

“Let him.”

“You sure about this, Monk?” Shadow asked, his voice serious. “You just burned a bridge with the Feds. That’s not something you can undo.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

I looked at him, then at Blackjack. My brothers. The men who’d stood by me, who’d shown up without questions, who’d bleed beside me if it came to that.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay with that.”

Shadow nodded slowly. “Then we’re with you. Whatever comes next.”

“Appreciate it.”

I stood, tossing a twenty on the table to cover the coffee, and headed for the door. Shadow and Blackjack followed, their boots heavy on the worn linoleum.

The sun hit hard when we stepped outside, all bright glare and dry Oklahoma heat. I dragged in a breath and felt something in my chest loosen—not gone, not healed, just unlatched.

Freedom.

It tasted like dust, gasoline, and bad decisions finally owned.

We walked toward our bikes, and I was halfway across the parking lot when I glanced across the street at Comanche County Hospital. The same building where I had taken Abigail when she broke her arm. Where I sat in the waiting room after the massacre, waiting to hear if my club brothers would survive.

And then I saw her—a woman with long dark hair walking toward the entrance. She moved with a grace so familiar it hit like a fist. Her silhouette cut through the sunlight like something dredged up from the grave of my own memory.

My heart stopped.

No. It couldn’t be. She was gone. I’d made peace with that years ago, or at least I’d told myself I had. But the way she moved, the tilt of her head, the line of her shoulders, the length of her stride... it was her.

It was myLina.

I stopped walking. My boots were rooted to the pavement.

“Monk?” Blackjack’s voice sounded distant, muffled. “You good, brother?”

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but stare as she reached the hospital doors and disappeared inside.

“Monk?”

“Did you see that woman?” I asked, my voice rough as rust. “The one who just went into the hospital?”