Page 43 of Falcon’s Forever

Instead, I change the subject. “What happened with the SUV last night?”

Falcon’s expression becomes guarded. “We saw it beyond the south line. Rook asked if we should follow.”

“And what did you say?” I ask.

“I said no,” he replies.

My chest tightens. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t know whether whoever was out there wanted us to give chase,” Falcon explains. “And because I had a job inside the perimeter.”

That’s the tactical answer, but there’s something else beneath it.

I hold his gaze. “You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I stayed.”

The word carries more weight than it should. I think about all the times I imagined Falcon coming for me, crossing any line, burning anything down. It sounds romantic until you understand what gets left behind when a man's always running toward the fight instead of standing where he's needed.

The security phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read the latest message.

Security Phone:

Routine update: No further sighting of suspect vehicle. External patrol unchanged.

Falcon glances at the screen. “Is the system working?”

“Very much so,” I assure him.

“Condor wants feedback,” he tells me.

“I’ve got several suggestions,” I reply.

Falcon laughs. “God help him.”

“Someone needs to,” I say, slipping the phone back into my pocket.

He looks toward the clubhouse. “I have to go.”

“Club business?” I ask.

“Always,” Falcon answers.

There’s no bitterness in the word this time. He takes a step back, then pauses.

“Cara.”

“Yes?” I answer.

“If something about security doesn’t work, tell me,” he says. “You can come to me personally, or tell Sterling or Vulture. You can even write another six-page manifesto and leave it somewhere impossible to ignore.”

“It wasn’t a manifesto,” I protest.

“Zip called it one,” Falcon points out.

“Zip’s an idiot,” I tell him.

"No argument from me on that." He holds my eyes a second longer, then turns and heads for the clubhouse, and he's not walking toward his bike, which makes all the difference. He's not running.