Page 50 of Monk

If I were really in danger, wouldn’t someone have come for me by now?

Unless Roberts wasn’t protecting me at all. Unless he was keeping tabs on me. The thought settled in my gut like cold iron. What if my continued protection had nothing to do with safety? What if it was about something bigger?

What if Roberts had his own agenda?

I thought about Keys—my old club brother, the bastard who masterminded the massacre all those years back. About the intel I’d been feeding WITSEC for years. The reports. The details on club operations, on Keys’ movements, on everything they’d wanted me to hand over.

What if that was the real reason Roberts wanted me back?

Not to protect me, but to use me.

My hands tightened on the handlebars, my jaw clenching so hard I felt my teeth grind.

Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t add up, and the more I thought about it, the more I didn’t like where my thoughts were going.

By then the sky had gone fully dark, stars beginning to punch through overhead while the road unspooled in front of me, empty and endless. I rode deeper into the Oklahoma night, the engine’s roar the only thing loud enough to drown my thoughts, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just made a dangerousenemy. Or worse—that I’d been playing a game I hadn’t even known I was in, and I was finally about to learn the rules.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Monk

The sun was bleeding out by the time the clubhouse compound came into view, the familiar silhouette of the building darkening against the encroaching night. I eased off the throttle and let the bike slow as I rolled toward the gate.

And then I saw it: the unmarked sedan parked out front like he owned the goddamn place. A bitter laugh scraped out of me.

Of course.Roberts couldn’t just let it go. Couldn’t take the hint and fuck off like I’d told him to. No, men like him never stopped at no. They pushed. Escalated. Kept prying until they had blood under their nails.

I pulled through the gate and killed the engine, then swung my leg over the seat. My boots hit the gravel with a crunch, and I stood there for a second staring at that sedan like it was a bomb waiting on the right pressure to blow. Then I started toward the clubhouse, jaw tight, hands curling into fists at my sides. The door was already open, light spilling into the dark. And from inside, I could hear it.

Shouting.

Roberts’ voice cut through the low rumble of the club as I stepped inside, loud and sharp enough to set my teeth on edge. The gathering room was packed. Brothers lined the walls, arms crossed, faces carved hard. Whisper and Widow stood near the bar, tense and ready. Blackjack leaned against the pool table, his eyes locked on the storm in the middle of the room. And therewas James Roberts, dead center in it, face flushed, hands slicing the air while he shouted at Kansas, who stood a few feet away with his arms folded across his chest and his expression blank as a grave marker.

“—I have dates, Stone. Dates and times. March 14th, 2019—weapons shipment from Amarillo. July 2nd, 2020—money laundering through the Lawton Farmers’ Market. September 18th, 2018—your involvement with the Vasquez Cartel before the massacre. And let’s not forget Mitchell Travers. Pence. Your VP. Executed in your clubhouse three weeks ago for statutory rape.” Roberts’ voice shook with fury, but triumph glinted underneath it. “I have witness statements. I have financial records. I have enough to bring RICO charges against every single member of this club. Conspiracy. Racketeering. Murder. You’re looking at twenty-five to life, minimum. All of you.”

Kansas said nothing. He just stood there staring, his face a mask of cold, controlled indifference. It was the kind of stillness that scared me more than shouting ever could.

I’d seen Kansas angry before. Seen him erupt. Seen him tear through a room like a man born to wreck things. But this was different. This was Kansas at his most dangerous, because he wasn’t reacting. He was waiting.

Shadow appeared at my side and leaned in, his voice low. “’Bout time you showed up,” he muttered. “This fucker’s been ranting for twenty minutes.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed. “I tried to tell him.”

Shadow snorted. “Yeah, well, he didn’t listen.”

Roberts was still going, his voice rising with every word. “You think you’re untouchable? You think the Feds won’t come down on you the second I make the call? I know one of you fuckers killed Steven Keystone, and I can prove it. I’ve also got financial trails that lead straight back to this clubhouse. And if that’s notenough—” He paused, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. A cold smile spread across his face. “I’ve got Abigail Smith. Your VP’s sister. She’s still in WITSEC protection. Still undermyjurisdiction.”

My blood went cold.

“If John doesn’t get back in line,” Roberts went on, his voice dropping into something almost conversational, “I’ll have her relocated. New identity. New city. Somewhere he’ll never find her. And if he tries to interfere, I’ll have him arrested for obstruction of justice and violation of federal witness protection protocols. He’ll be in federal prison before the week is out.” His smile widened. “So unless you want to see your precious Diamondbacks torn apart piece by piece, and your VP’s sister disappear into the system forever, you’ll order John Smith back into WITSEC where he belongs. Immediately.”

The room went silent. Every brother in the clubhouse stared, faces locked somewhere between shock and murder.

Kansas moved.

One second Kansas was still; the next, his hand shot out and closed around Roberts’ throat. He slammed the federal agent back against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed photos nearby. Roberts’ eyes flew wide, his hands clawing at Kansas’ grip. Kansas didn’t let go. He leaned in until his face was inches from Roberts’ and spoke in a voice low enough to make the whole room listen harder.

“You just threatened the sister of a brother, you sick fuck,” Kansas seethed, his words dripping with venom. “In my house. In front of the entire club.”