Page 42 of Rogue’s Reckoning

“Smoke’s on his way. We need to get ahead of this. No one takes out a Saint and gets away with it.”

I nod in agreement. No one kills our president and walks away scot-free.

“Rogue, take Sniper and go to the Hawks’ clubhouse. Find out where the fuck they are and if they had a hand in taking out our president. Do whatever the fuck you need to do in order to extract information.”

A cold smile spreads across my face. This is what I'm good for now—violence, pain, fear and destruction. It's all I have left to offer. I’ll happily do it. Fuck, I need something to do.

"Consider it done," I growl, grabbing my cut and heading for the door.

The Hawks'clubhouse stands before us, silent and dark. It's a far cry from what it used to be. Sniper and I exchange a glance before approaching, weapons at the ready.

We breach the door easily—too easily. The main room is empty, a thick layer of dust covering everything. It's clear no one's been here in months.

"Looks abandoned," Sniper mutters.

I nod, but something doesn't feel right. I always trust my gut in moments like this. "Let's check the rest."

We move through the building systematically, finding nothing but more emptiness and dust. Until we reach the back rooms.

The door creaks open, revealing three older men lounging on worn couches. Their eyes widen in fear as they recognize us, each of them wearing their worn cuts, letting us know they’re members of the Shadow Hawks MC.

"Well, well," I drawl, a cold smile spreading across my face. "Looks like we found some stragglers."

One of the men, a grizzled biker with a gray beard, stands up shakily. "We ain't got nothing to do with the Hawks no more. They left us behind."

"Is that so?" I ask, circling him predatorily. "Then maybe you can tell us where they went. And why your boys decided to take out our president."

The old man's face pales. "We don't know nothin' about that. The Hawks cleared out months ago, left us to rot," he spits, sounding disgusted, then again, if my club did it to me, I’d be beyond pissed.

I exchange a glance with Sniper. He nods, understanding my unspoken command. In a flash, he has one of the other men pinned to the wall, knife at his throat.

"Let's try this again," I growl, grabbing the bearded man by his shirt. "Where are the Hawks?"

"I swear, we don't know!" he cries out.

I slam him against the wall, feeling a sick satisfaction as he groans in pain. "Wrong answer."

My knife slices into his shoulder, his howl of pain echoing through the room. The old man's eyes widen in terror as blood seeps through his shirt.

"I'll ask one more time," I growl, twisting the knife slightly. "Where are the Hawks?"

"Please," he gasps. "We really don't know! They left us here, said we were too old to be useful. Haven't heard from 'em in months!"

I search his eyes, looking for any sign of deception, but all I see is fear and desperation.

"What about Storm?" Sniper asks, pressing his knife harder against his captive's throat. "You hear anything about that?"

The third man, who's been cowering silently in the corner, suddenly speaks up. "Wait! I... I might know somethin'."

I turn to him, raising an eyebrow. "Talk."

"I overheard some of the younger guys talkin' before they left," he says, voice shaking. "They mentioned somethin' about settlin' old scores. Said they had a plan to hit the Saints where it'd hurt most."

My blood runs cold. "When was this?"

"'Bout ten months ago," he replies. "Right before they cleared out."

I raise a brow at Sniper. This doesn't add up. If the Hawks had been planning this for months, why wait until now? And why target Storm specifically?

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