Page 135 of Monk

I hesitated, running my hand through my hair as I weighed my options. I was a detective in New York, not some freelance PI who could just pick up cases wherever the wind blew me. I had no jurisdiction in Oklahoma. Hell, I had no business even thinking about it. And getting involved in some MC drama halfway across the country was a good way to fuck up my career—maybe even end it. The department didn’t look kindly on cops who went rogue, even for friends.

But this was Kole. My best friend since we were kids. The guy who’d had my back more times than I could count, who’d pulled me out of more bad situations than I cared to remember. We’d grown up together, survived the same shitty neighborhood, looked out for each other when no one else would. I owed him more than I could ever repay.

“Alright,” I said finally, the word coming out heavier than I intended. “Send me the file. I’ll take a look. But I’m not promising anything, you understand? I can’t officially investigate this.”

“Thank you,” Kole said, and I could hear the relief flooding through his voice like a dam breaking. “I owe you, man. I mean it. Big time.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” I said firmly, meaning every word. “Just stay safe, alright? Keep your head down, watch your back, and don’t trust anyone until we figure out what’s going on.”

“Yeah,” Kole said quietly. “I will. I promise.”

The line went dead with a soft click. I stood there in my kitchen, still in my boxers and undershirt, staring at my phone as the screen went dark. Outside, I could hear the muffled sounds of the city—sirens wailing in the distance, someone shouting on the street below, the constant hum of traffic. But inside my apartment, everything felt too quiet, too still. A knot of unease tightened in my gut, twisting and coiling like a snake preparing to strike.

Three days later, I got the call. The one you never wanted to receive. The one that made your blood run cold and your hands shake as you gripped the phone.

Kole was dead. Killed in an altercation with a member of the Golden Skulls MC—a guy named Shadow. The official report said Shadow had believed Kole was assaulting a woman outside a dive bar on the east side of town. That Shadow intervened to protect her. That Kole’s death was accidental, just a tragic case of wrong place, wrong time. Collateral damage in a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control. The case was closed before it even really opened, stamped and filed away like it was nothing more than routine paperwork.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. Something didn’t add up. The timing was too convenient, the explanations too neat and tidy. Kole had been digging into something—asking questions, following leads, getting closer to answers that someone didn’t want found.

That Kole had been onto something big and that something had gotten him killed. And I was determined to find out what.

I opened my eyes and stared at the files scattered across the coffee table in front of me. The manila folders were worn at the edges, coffee-stained, and filled with notes I’d scribbled at three in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come. Which was most nights lately.

Kole’s death wasn’t an accident. I knew that now with absolute certainty. Because while Shadow believed he was the one responsible for Kole’s death—and the guilt was eating him alive—he wasn’t actually the one who killed him. I had video footage from the bar that night that proved it beyond any shadow of a doubt. Video that mysteriously showed up on my doorstep weeks after my best friend’s death, with no return address and no explanation. Just a USB drive in a plain padded envelope.

Then there was Justin Conroy. Conroy had been shot and killed after helping Kali’s ex-husband kidnap her in broad daylight. Two deaths within a matter of months. Both connected to the Diamondbacks. Both conveniently ruled accidental or justified by the authorities who seemed all too eager to close the cases and move on.

But I didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore. Not after everything I’d seen. Someone with serious clout and deep pockets was orchestrating events with deadly consequences right here in Lawton, Oklahoma. Something big was happening,something dangerous and calculated, centered around the Diamondback Motorcycle Club and the people connected to it. And I was going to figure out exactly what it was even if it killed me—which, given how things were going, seemed like a very real possibility.

I stood up, draining the last of my beer and savoring the bitter finish before heading toward the bathroom. The bottle made a hollow thunk as I set it down on the counter.

A hot shower to wash away the grime of the day. Some actual sleep for once. Then I’d start fresh tomorrow with a clear head and renewed focus.

I was halfway to the bathroom, already unbuttoning my shirt, when my phone rang. The shrill tone cut through the silence of my apartment. I stopped, frowning, and pulled it out of my pocket with a sense of dread. Nothing good ever came from late-night calls.

Unknown number.

I hesitated for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, then answered it. “O’Rourke.”

“Chief, it’s Officer Ramirez,” a young voice said on the other end, speaking quickly and with an edge of urgency. “We’ve got a situation out here. Three bodies found out in the backcountry, and it’s... well, it’s bad. Real bad. You’re needed at the scene immediately.”

My heart rate picked up, adrenaline already flooding my system. So much for that shower and sleep. “Where?”

“About fifteen miles past the city limits. Off Route 49, down one of those old logging roads. Middle of nowhere. I’ll text you the exact coordinates right now.”

“I’m on my way.” I was already moving toward the door.

I disconnected the call and grabbed my keys from the hook by the door, my gun and badge from the table. My hands movedon autopilot, muscle memory taking over as my mind raced through possibilities.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. Three bodies in the backcountry didn’t happen by accident.

The drive out to the scene took twenty minutes, maybe a little longer. I wasn’t rushing—there was no point. Whatever had happened out here was already done.

The roads were dark and empty, the kind of Oklahoma backcountry where you could drive for miles without seeing another soul. Nothing but fields and the occasional farmhouse set back from the road, windows dark, everyone already asleep. My headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the cracked asphalt and the tall grass on either side of the road. The grass swayed gently in the night breeze, creating shadows that danced at the edges of my vision.

When I finally saw the flashing lights up ahead, my stomach tightened. Squad cars. Lots of them. At least six, maybe more, all parked at odd angles like they’d arrived in a hurry. The red and blue lights painted the trees in alternating colors, creating an eerie strobe effect against the night sky.

I pulled up behind the last one and killed the engine. For a moment, I just sat there, my hands still on the steering wheel, watching the scene unfold through my windshield. Preparing myself for whatever was waiting.