Page 42 of The Maverick

Hawke pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. Pulse—faint, but there.

“Hang on,” he muttered, already reaching for his phone.

He dialed Gavin. “Send med-evac to mile marker seventy-two off North Ridge. Charles has been hit. Looks like a hit job—probably Brenner or someone working for him. I need fast extraction, no lights.”

“Copy,” Gavin replied. “ETA six minutes.”

Hawke pocketed the phone and scanned the road again. No return vehicle.

He crouched beside Charles, watching the blood soak into the dirt. The bastard had tried to talk. Had started to. That wasn’t nothing.

But now, someone else knew Charles was compromised, and they had just tried to silence him. Hawke didn’t know if Charles would survive long enough to talk again, but one thing was clear: the enemy was closer, more organized, and willing to kill to keep Vanessa in the dark.

And that? That was going to be their final mistake.

Hawke paced the far edge of the clearing where Gavin and Jesse stabilized Charles for transport. The man was barely conscious, drifting in and out with slurred murmurs and one eye swollen shut. A shallow gash ran along his temple. His femur was likely fractured, judging by the sick angle of his leg. But he was alive.

Barely.

And that was the part that had Hawke’s instincts screaming.

The hit wasn’t random. This wasn’t a panicked cover-up by someone afraid Charles would talk. Someone had calculated this. Precise. The kind of surgical strike you only made when someone had said too much—or was about to.

Someone knew where Charles would be. Someone knew Hawke was following. And someone had been waiting just long enough to make sure the man didn’t survive long enough to confess.

Jesse moved to the SUV, nodding once. “We’ve got him. Drone sweep shows nothing moving within a half-mile radius. Whoever ran him down is long gone.”

Gavin crouched beside the wrecked vehicle, scanning the skid marks with a penlight. “No plates. No dashcam. Treadpattern’s deep, off-market tires. They planned these tires for rural terrain, not city street pursuit.

Hawke didn’t respond. His mind was already three steps ahead. He crouched next to Charles, eyes locked on the man’s bloody face.

“You said Brenner has backups,” he said quietly. “Files. Insurance. Where?”

Charles’s eyelids fluttered. “Locker… west end. Storage.” His breathing stuttered. “He said... if he disappeared... keys go to her…”

Hawke leaned in. “What storage? Where?”

Charles choked on blood. Gavin moved in with suction gear and a stabilizer, cutting the conversation short. Whatever Charles knew now, they weren’t getting more of it here.

But the mention of a locker changed the game. Hawke rose, wiping blood from his gloves as Jesse secured the man’s torso.

“There’s got to be a leak. It’s the only thing that explains all of this,” Hawke said to Gavin. “Someone inside Silver Spur or the club is feeding information to Brenner.”

Gavin’s face went flat. “You’re sure?”

“It has to be. I followed Charles in silence. No trail, no digital comms, nothing on radio. There’s no way that hit was coincidence. Someone warned him.”

“That means it’s someone on the inside,” Gavin muttered. “You think it’s one of ours?”

“Club staff, an independent contractor, or someone who hacked into Silver Spur’s internal database could be responsible. Charles said Brenner has been feeding threats through burner emails and using other people to do his dirty work. If we’ve got a mole, I need them flushed out now.”

“Understood.”

Jesse rose. “You think Brenner’s done playing games?”

“No,” Hawke said. “I think he’s just getting started.”

He grabbed his gear and stalked toward the truck, adrenaline hot and sharp in his bloodstream. He didn’t speak until the truck door slammed shut behind him. Then he turned to Gavin.

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