Page 48 of Falcon’s Forever

He meets her eyes. "Yes."

Nobody likes it, but it's the right answer. Cara sits beside Emily. "We know more now than we did yesterday. The system worked. The camera showed the outage. The latch held. The club responded."

Emily's breathing is still too fast. Cara puts her hand palm up between them and waits, and Emily takes it.

"There are men outside," Emily whispers.

"Yes," I say, quietly.

"What if they get in?" She looks at Cara.

Cara looks at me, and I know she's not asking me to promise the impossible, but just to truthful with my answer.

I move one step closer, no more. "They won't get through this house without going through us first."

Her eyes change the second I say it. I catch myself. "No, actually that's not fair either. I can't promise nobody ever gets through a door. What I can promise is you're not sitting here waiting for it alone. We know there's a threat now, and every brother on this property is working it." I gesture at the phone. "You get updates. If you want something different, you tell us."

Sterling appears in the doorway, his expression urgent. “Condor found something.”

I turn toward him. “What did he find?”

“A vehicle on a county camera,” Sterling reports. “Black SUV travelling eastbound at eleven forty-eight.”

That’s five minutes after the camera outage. “Did he get the plate?” I ask.

“Part of it,” Sterling replies. “Condor thinks it’s enough.”

Vulture looks at me and jerks his head toward the door. “Go.”

I hesitate, and Cara notices.

“Falcon,” she calls softly.

I look at her.

Cara holds my gaze. “Go do your job.”

Hearing her say it lands harder than it should.

“You’ll get updates,” I promise.

“I know,” Cara replies.

There’s trust in those two words. It isn’t much yet, but it’s there.

Outside, the compound is fully awake. Brothers are moving into position, and prospects are hauling equipment across the yard.

Condor stands in the clubhouse doorway, shouting information at us because apparently walking would waste seconds he doesn’t have.

“I’ve got part of the plate,” he calls. “Four characters. It’s enough to narrow down the model.”

Rook looks toward him. “Did you get a face?”

“The tint is too dark,” Condor answers.

I look at the map on his tablet. Eastbound, toward the warehouse tied to the feeder company. Not a coincidence.

"Maybe," Vulture says, when I say it out loud.