The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 201

Chapter 105-3

“I didn’t run -”

Clam

“In his head, you aren’t just a low-level rat who got scared,” Cobra says. You’re the greedy little bastard who saw an opening, pocketed his payday, and tried to slip into the night.”

“I didn’t take it!” Miller squeaks, his voice cracking violently as a fresh bead of cold sweat stings his eye. “I don’t even have the code to the front door!”

“You think Knox gives a damn about a code?” Cobra snorts. “Or even what’s reality? Knox doesn’t care about evidence, he cares about narrative. And right now, the narrative is that a truck is missing – the truck that you were driving – and now you’re gone. To Knox, that isn’t a coincidence. That’s a fucking confession.”

Miller gulps.

“And here’s the best part,” Cobra says, his dark eyes locking onto Miller’s blown-out pupils. “Even if Knox halfway suspects someone else took his delivery, he knows you were in that lab. He knows you saw who came and went. He knows you know something.”

“-”

“Which means that when Sebastian Vane’s boys drag you into a fucking basement somewhere, they aren’t just going to put a bullet in you and call it a day. They’re going to take you apart piece by piece, inch by inch, until you give them a name, a location, or a body. They want their product, man.” Cobra pauses. “You do know who Vane is, right?”

Miller breaks. A ragged, wet sob tears out of his chest, his knees knocking together as the reality of his situation slams into him like a freight train.

‘They’ll… they’ll peel my skin off,” Miller whimpers, tearing at the plastic restraints around his wrists until the sharp edges slice into his skin. “Vane… Vane doesn’t stop. He doesn’t listen.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Cobra agrees softly.

“So I’ll ask you one last time, Miller. Are we cutting these ties to send you out to Vale’s cleanup crew… or are you going to tell Locke every single thing you saw in the past five years?”

Miller slumps in complete, total surrender. “I’ll tell you everything… please just don’t put me back on the

street.”

“Cut him loose,” Cobra orders Mayhem. “Get him some hot food and a pot of coffee. Put him at the table with Locke.”

Mayhem flashes his knife, snapping the zip-ties with a quick flick of his wrist. Miller rubs his chafed wrists, gasping for air like a man spared from the electric chair.

“Rook, Hammer, Bishop,” Cobra says, walking out into the main warehouse vault. “Store this truck’s load as far and deep as you can, then lock this whole location down. We sit on this cargo and we sit on this intel. Let Knox spin his wheels accusing his own men while Vane turns up the heat.”

I stand in the doorway a moment longer, watching Miller slowly pull a stool up to the bench to start

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drawing out the blueprints. My mind moves back to the numbers, recording every detail into my ledger:

We aren’t rushing into a suicide breach on Knox’s facility.

We have his cargo-tocked down, his driver giving up his layout, and Knox tearing his own camp apart from the inside out.

I pull out my phone, the screen illuminating the quiet shadows of the vault, and send a quick, two-word text to Byte back at the clubhouse:

Cargo secured.

I slide the phone back into my jacket, turn on my heel, and walk into the cold vault to talk to Miller, to keep building our leverage, piece by piece.

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