Page 133 of Monk

“But for now,” he said, “we’re done. Church is over.”

I stood and walked over to where Lina was sitting, her hands folded in her lap, her expression exhausted, and held out my hand. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home, baby.”

She looked up at me, her eyes softening as she took my hand and stood.

We walked out of the church room together, past the brothers gathered in the main room, past the bikes parked in the compound. And as we climbed into her car and pulled out onto the road, heading back toward the Wilcox Farm where Tatum was waiting, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope. Because no matter what came next, no matter what battles we had to fight, what enemies we had to face, I knew one thing for certain.

I wouldn’t be facing it alone.

I had Lina.

I had Tatum.

I had my brothers, my family, and I’d be damned if I let anyone take that away from me.

EPILOGUE

Sean O’Rourke

The apartment door stuck like it always did, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.

I had to shoulder it open, putting my full weight against the peeling paint, the wood scraping against the warped frame with a sound that grated on my last nerve. The place smelled like stale coffee and takeout containers I’d forgotten to throw away three days ago. Maybe four. I’d lost track. The faint odor of cigarette smoke clung to the walls from the previous tenant, a ghost I could never quite exorcise no matter how many windows I opened.

Home sweet fucking home.

I dropped my keys on the kitchen table—a scratched-up piece of shit I’d bought at a yard sale when I first moved to Lawton, back when I still gave a damn about making the place livable—and reached up to unbuckle my shoulder holster. The weight of my service weapon had been digging into my ribs all day, leaving an ache that radiated through my chest with every breath. Ten hours on patrol would do that to you. Ten hours of watching the worst humanity had to offer, responding to domestic calls and petty theft reports, pretending I still believed any of it mattered.

I set the gun down next to the keys with a dull thud against the scarred wood. Then I unpinned my badge from my belt and placed it beside the Glock, the metal catching the dim light from the overhead fixture. The two items sat there on the table, side by side, like evidence at a crime scene.

Gun and badge. The only two things that defined me anymore. Everything else—the marriage, the dreams, the optimism I’d carried on my first day at the academy—all of it had fallen away, stripped down to these two pieces of metal and polymer.

I walked to the fridge, pulled out a beer, and twisted off the cap. The first sip was cold and bitter, exactly what I needed as I crossed the short distance to my couch—a sagging, worn-out piece of furniture that had seen better days, its cushions permanently molded to the shape of my body from countless nights just like this one—and dropped onto it with a heavy sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in my bones.

My eyes went immediately to the coffee table in front of me, drawn like a magnet to the chaos I’d been living with for weeks now.

Files. Dozens of them. Spread out like a fucking crime scene, overlapping each other in a messy collage of mugshots, rap sheets, surveillance photos, and incident reports, some open, some closed, all of them marked with names I’d come to know too well. Names that haunted me during the day and kept me up at night.

Kansas Aaron Stone, the president, the shot-caller, the man at the top of the food chain.

John “Monk” Smith, the new VP, known for his silent brutality and dead eyes.

Zack “Blackjack” Maine, the treasurer, who ran their money laundering operations with ruthless efficiency.

Henry “Whisper” Amaro, one of two enforcers, whose nickname was ironic given his penchant for making people scream.

Nolan “Widow” Brant, the other enforcer, who lived up to his club name.

Ezekiel “Shadow” Miller, the intel officer with ties to the Golden Skulls MC, which made him especially dangerous.

Every member of the Diamondback Motorcycle Club. Every single one of these bastards.

I knew everything about them. Where they came from. What neighborhoods they grew up in. What schools they dropped out of. Their pasts. Their families—wives, girlfriends, kids, parents, siblings. Their crimes—alleged and confirmed. Assault. Drug trafficking. Extortion. Racketeering. Murder. Everything they’d done since joining the club. Every ride. Every run. Every suspected deal.

It was a full dossier of a real criminal organization. The kind of thing that should’ve put them all away for decades.

And yet. There wasn’t a single bit of evidence to back up the claims. No witnesses willing to talk—they either disappeared, recanted, or developed sudden amnesia on the stand. No forensic evidence tying them to anything concrete. No paper trail that led anywhere useful. Just suspicions. Rumors. Whispers from confidential informants who couldn’t or wouldn’t testify.