"You’re in danger. Pretend I'm your father."
Nine words. He didn't say, I can help you. He didn't say, Don't worry. He gave her an immediate directive. And the word father landed in a place that had been empty her entire life.
June’s knuckles tightened on the coffee pot. Her eyes darted to the counter; one suited man had turned toward them. She looked back to the biker, took a breath, and leaned into the lie.
"Dad," she said, annoyance creeping into her voice. "I already told you I can’t make it Sunday."
His name was Gideon Marsh. Road name: Copperhead. Fifty-three years old. Twenty-two years in the United States Marine Corps. Force Recon. Seventeen years in the Hells Angels. He had been sitting in the back booth since 8:17, watching the front entrance. Today was supposed to be surveillance only, until the suits locked onto June.
What he did not say to June—what he had been doing in this diner and across three states for seven years—would take longer than nine words.
"Play along," Gideon said, his tone perfectly mirroring a man catching up with family. "You’re doing well. Don't look at them directly. Look annoyed with me."
"You always do this," June snapped back, crossing one arm over the coffee pot.