Page 60 of Contracted to the Bikers

“I don’t make decisions like this lightly,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”

I lean back slightly, studying her. “Say it,” I tell her.

She tilts her head. “Say what?”

“Why did you really make that call? Not the legal answer. The real one.”

Sloane’s fingers rest lightly on the edge of the table; she taps them as she thinks. “I’ve spent my entire career making judgment calls,” she says quietly. “Deciding what strengthens a case and what destroys it.” Her eyes hold mine. “This is no different.”

Cruz shakes his head slightly. “It is different.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Because this time, I care about the people affected. The case is personal. I’m not ignoring it,” she continues. “I’m weighing it, and I’ve decided that including it does more harm than good.” She pauses. Then softly adds, “And yes. I’m also protecting you.”

Something tightens in my chest. It’s not guilt. Not exactly. I nod once because I understand.

Boone exhales slowly. “Then we move forward together,” he says.

Cruz nods. “Yeah. No more holding back.”

I look at Sloane. “Alright,” I say. “Let’s finish this.”

***

Given that MC business sometimes skirts the boundaries of legality, we try and keep as far away from the cops as possible. So I can’t say I feel comfortable as I walk through the entrance to the precinct.

People move around us—uniforms, plainclothes, civilians—but their voices seem muted, like we’re walking through something separate from the rest of the world. Conversations dip as we pass, not stopping entirely, but shifting just enough to acknowledge that we don’t belong here in the same way everyone else does.

Detective Miguel Alvarez meets us at the desk. He’s exactly how I remember him, sharp-eyed, composed, the kind of man who sees more than he says. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, tie loosened just slightly, like he’s been here too long already. His gaze moves over all of us, assessing, calculating, taking in every detail, the cuts, the posture, the tension we’re carrying without even realizing it. Then it settles on Sloane. “You’ve got something we can use this time?” he asks. There’s no mockery in it, just expectation tinged with caution, a man who doesn’t want to get his hopes up. It makes me hopeful that he wants to nail the bastard as much as we do.

Sloane steps forward. “Yes.” There’s no hesitation or uncertainty.

He studies her for a moment, as if he’s weighing not just the words but her, then nods. “Alright. Let’s see it.”

The room they take us into is small, too small for all of us. The walls are a dull, institutional gray, the kind that absorbs light rather than reflects it. A single table sits in the center, with metal legs and a scratched surface, surrounded by mismatched chairs that scrape loudly against the floor when we move them.

Connor is already there, as he promised Sloane he would be. He looks worse than before. His shirt clings to his back in damp patches, sweat darkening the fabric under his arms. His leg shakes restlessly, heel tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor. His eyes dart around, flicking from door to window to us, looking for an exit that doesn’t exist. He’s scared. Good.

Sloane doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t even glance in his direction, and I feel a stab of satisfaction at the hurt on Connor’s face as he finally realizes what he gave up. She moves like he’s just another piece of the furniture. She lays everything out, spreading the files with a clean sweep. Every piece clearly connects to the next, with no gaps, no room for Briggs to wriggle out of.

I watch Alvarez as she speaks, clearly and methodically laying out the case. She builds it the way she built everything else—layer by layer, fact by fact, until there’s no space left for doubt. The shift is subtle, but it’s there. Alvarez’s skepticism is clear. Tight shoulders, narrowed eyes, arms crossed like he’s bracing for disappointment, but then it fades, and his interest sharpens as understanding settles in. He leans forward slightly, uncrossing his arms, one hand coming to rest on the table as he follows the connections she lays out. His posture changes completely, attention sharpening, eyes tracking every document, every explanation.

By the time she finishes, the room feels different, as if everything has clicked into place.

Alvarez leans back slowly, exhaling, one hand dragging down his face as he processes everything. “Now that is a case,” he says. Admiration tinges his tone, quiet and unmistakable.

I feel a swell of pride.

Connor nods quickly, his relief bleeding into desperation. “I told you I’d cooperate. I’m not going to get in any trouble, am I? I was—”

Alvarez cuts him off with a raised hand, the movement sharp enough to stop him mid-sentence. “Save it.”

Connor shuts up immediately, swallowing hard, shoulders dropping as the reality of his position settles back over him.

“You’ll get immunity for your compliance.”

Connor sags with relief, the tension draining out of him in visible waves, his hands shaking slightly where they rest on the table.