Page 48 of Monk

Not mine. Someone else’s. Some other man had touched her, put a baby in her, laid claim to something that had lived under my skin for years. I shook my head hard, trying to dislodge the thought before it rooted any deeper. It didn’t work. It never fucking worked.

The road ahead blurred for a second, and I blinked hard, forcing it back into focus. The last thing I needed was to wrapmyself around a telephone pole because I couldn’t keep my head straight. I rode another ten minutes, maybe fifteen, letting speed and engine noise drown out everything else. Out there, there was nothing—no club, no church, no Lina, no ghosts.

Just me and the road.

Then I saw the lights in my rearview. Headlights flashing—not the steady glow of some car hanging back, but something deliberate. Intentional. The kind of signal that said,pull the fuck over.

My jaw tightened.

I knew who it was before I even looked.

James Roberts.

Of course it was.

I could’ve kept riding. Could’ve twisted the throttle and vanished into the dark, left him standing on the shoulder with his dick in his hand and nothing to show for it. But that would’ve only delayed the problem. Roberts had already proved he didn’t know how to let go. And if I kept running, he’d show up somewhere worse—at the clubhouse, at Abigail’s work, somewhere I couldn’t control.

Better to deal with it now. On my terms.

I eased off the throttle and pulled onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under my tires. I left the engine running, the low rumble a steady reminder that I could leave whenever the fuck I wanted. The unmarked sedan rolled in behind me, headlights slicing through the dusk. The driver’s door opened, and James Roberts stepped out.

He looked exactly like he always did—pressed slacks, button-down shirt, and that smug federal expression that made me want to cave his face in. More gray at the temples than last time. Stress, probably. Good. He came toward me slowly, hands visible, posture careful, like he was approaching something feral.

Smart man.

“John,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “We need to talk.”

I didn’t respond. Just sat there on my bike, one boot on the ground, the other resting on the peg, my hands still gripping the handlebars.

Roberts stopped a few feet away—close enough to be heard over the engine, far enough that I couldn’t reach him without moving. “You can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice sliding toward something that almost sounded like concern. Almost. “Living at the clubhouse. Riding with the Diamondbacks. You’re making yourself a target, John. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“That’s my problem,” I said flatly.

“It’smyproblem when the witness I’ve been protecting for over two decades decides to throw his life away because he’s having a midlife crisis.”

I felt my lip curl into a sneer. “Midlife crisis. That’s what you’re calling it?”

“What would you call it?” Roberts shot back, frustration finally bleeding through. “You walked away from WITSEC. You’re living openly in a motorcycle club that’s been under federal investigation for years. You’re putting yourself and your sister at risk for what? Pride? Stubbornness?”

“Freedom,” I said coldly. “I’m calling it freedom.”

Roberts’ jaw tightened. He took a breath, visibly trying to rein himself in.

“John, listen to me. You need to come back. We can relocate you again. Somewhere safe. Somewhere far from here. You and Abigail. We’ll set you up with new identities, new lives?—”

“No.”

The word came out hard and final as Roberts stared at me, his expression darkening.

“If you refuse,” he said slowly, “I’ll be forced to file criminal charges against you.”

I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was harsh and bitter, echoing across the empty road.

“Criminal charges,” I repeated, shaking my head. “For what, exactly?”

“Conspiracy. Witness tampering. Violation of your federal protection agreement. Obstruction of justice.” Roberts rattled it off like he’d practiced it in the mirror. “You’ve been gathering intel on club members for years, John. Intel you were supposed to report to us. Intel you’ve been sitting on. That’s a federal crime.”

I leaned forward a fraction, my eyes locking on his. “Everything I did,” I said, my voice low and mean, “was at WITSEC’s request. Every piece of intel. Every operation. Every fucking thing I’ve done for the last eighteen years happened becauseyou peopletold me to do it. You want to charge me? Go ahead. But the second you do, you expose WITSEC’s involvement. You expose your own operation. And we both know the Feds aren’t going to let that happen.”