Page 28 of Monk

“You sure about this?” Shadow asked as he swung off his bike. His silver-gray eyes were sharp and measuring. He’d worn the Golden Skull patch once—an executioner, a man who’d spilled enough blood to drown a memory. If anybody understood the weight of what I was about to do, it was him.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m sure.”

Blackjack adjusted his cut, his expression unreadable. “Roberts is gonna lose his shit.”

“Let him.”

I climbed off my bike and headed for the door. Shadow and Blackjack fell in behind me, silent and solid. I’d asked them to come for a reason—not just as backup, but as witnesses.Whatever happened in there, I wanted brothers who could swear to how it went down.

The bell above the door gave a thin little chime when we walked in. The place smelled of grease, burned coffee, and pie—apple maybe, or cherry. A few heads turned our way, eyes catching on our cuts before skittering off again. Folks in Lawton knew better than to stare too long at Diamondbacks.

James Roberts was already there in a booth near the back, exactly where a man like him would sit—far enough in to watch the room, close enough to the exit to bolt if things turned ugly. Mid-fifties. Graying hair cut military short. Suit worth more than my bike. Face built out of rules, leverage, and other people’s fear.

A federal vulture in a pressed suit.

He saw me and stood, his hand half-extended like he expected a handshake.

I ignored it.

“John,” he said, his voice clipped. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” I replied, sliding into the booth across from him.

Shadow and Blackjack took a table nearby—close enough to step in if shit went sideways, far enough to fake a little privacy. Shadow ordered coffee. Blackjack just sat there with his arms crossed, watching. Roberts’ eyes flicked toward them, then back to me. “You brought company.”

“Insurance,” I said.

His jaw tightened. “This is a private conversation.”

“Not anymore.”

A waitress appeared. She was young, blonde, and wore too much makeup. She smiled nervously. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee,” I said. “Black.”

“Same,” Roberts said, dismissing her with a glance before she hurried off. Then he leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

“Been busy.”

“Too busy to check in with your handler? Too busy to provide intel like you’re supposed to?”

I met his gaze, unflinching. “Yeah. Too busy.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re walking a real thin line, John. You know that, right? WITSEC isn’t a suggestion. It’s a contract. You violate the terms, there are consequences.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He leaned back, his expression hardening. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve forgotten who’s keeping you and your sister alive. Who’s keeping you out of a federal prison cell?”

The waitress came back with our coffee, setting the mugs down with hands that shook just a little before she disappeared again. I wrapped both hands around mine and let the heat soak into my palms. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then what the hell is going on? You missed three check-ins, you stopped providing intel, and now you show up here with two bikers like you’re making some kind of statement.”

“I am making a statement.”

Roberts’ eyes went cold. “Excuse me?”

I took a sip of coffee and let the silence stretch until it started to bite. Then I set the mug down and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m done,” I said. “I’m exiting WITSEC. Effective immediately.”