The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 480

Chapter 236-1

Zara

We’re trapped, and Detective Sergeant Jameson Miller knows it. He’s made sure of it.

I stand in the corner of the clubhouse bar, feeling the walls are actively closing in.

+25 Points

Through the heavy wooden blinds covering the window, I can see the dull glint of sunlight hitting the windshield of an unmarked blue sedan parked across the road.

Next to it, idling near the industrial dumpster, is a blacked–out police cruiser.

On the main strip out front, two more squad cars sit like vultures on a fence, their engines humming, their drivers taking neat little notes every time a door opens or a curtain shifts.

Miller didn’t just lay down a perimeter; he built a fortress around us, and he’s using the city police force as his personal bricks.

“Every single time one of our guys turns an ignition key,” Mayhem growls. “Two patrol units drop right onto his tail. Stitch tried to run down to the pharmacy for medical supplies yesterday. Got pulled over three blocks away for an alleged ‘failing to signal‘.”

I turn around. “What? Really?”

“Yep. They held him on the curb for half an hour, searched his saddlebags, and threatened to impound his bike on suspicion of stolen parts.”

“He’s choking us out,” my father says. “We can’t launch a search party for Locke with cops filming every move we make. The second we ride out in force, Miller calls in the whole city force, and we’re followed everywhere we go.”

“So we can’t move the patch–holders,” I say. “Every leather jacket with a Skull on the back is a neon target. If we send Mayhem, or Diesel, or any of the road captains out there into the streets, Miller’s boys will pin them to the wall before they even cross the street.”

“Which leaves Locke in Vane’s hands while we sit here sucking air and taking notes,” Mayhem spits. He kicks a wooden stool, sending it skittering across the room to crash against the baseboards. “We’re letting him bleed while Miller sits outside picking his teeth and drinking bad gas–station coffee.”

“No,” Dad says suddenly. He turns around slowly, his dark eyes sharpening with an old, dangerous intelligence that built this territory thirty years ago. “We don’t move the leather. We move the shadows.”

Mayhem frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “What shadows?”

“The people Miller doesn’t see,” my father replies, walking over to his desk and pulling out a small, locked metal cash box from the bottom drawer. “The ones nobody sees.”

He uses a small silver key on his ring to snap the tumbler open, reaching inside to pull out an old, black, leather–bound address book, worn paper soft from decades of thumbing, the cover cracked and held together by black electrical tape.

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