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“Exactly. If they don’t get her, a gator might.”

“Or a snake,” Vapor says grimly.

I nod, already deeply entrenched in that headspace. We’ve got to get to her, and fast. The rest of the MC members circle around us, faces set, ready for whatever lies ahead. They know the stakes couldn’t be any higher, but they’re just as determined as we are to get to her before something terrible happens.

“Listen up,” Vapor says. “This terrain ain’t forgiving. Watch for snakes, gators, and quicksand.” His words are a grim reminder of what we’re walking into, a natural minefield where one wrong step could be our last.

I take point, pushing past the torn fabric still caught in the thorns, my gaze tracing the faint trail Isabella must’ve taken. Mud sucks at my boots, trying to hold me back. Every step is a battle. The air clings to me like a second skin, heavy with the scent of decay and blooming water lilies—a deceptive perfume masking the dangers below.

Cicadas drone their monotonous song, interrupted only by the distant croak of a bullfrog or the splash of something unseen moving through the water. It’s a symphony of the wild, both haunting and alive, and it sets my nerves on edge. I’m tuned into every sound, every shift in the dense foliage that signals potential threats or signs of Isabella.

“Stay close,” I call back without turning my head, trusting the others to follow my lead.

The underbrush snags at my jeans, but I press on, following the barely discernible path. It’s the only connection to Isabella we’ve got, so we can’t lose it.

Every shadow could be her, every whisper of movement could be a signal for help—or a warning. We’re in the heart of the bayou now, a world away from the throbbing pulse of Bourbon Street and the comfort of Vapor’s house. But this is what family does, we venture into the abyss for one of our own.

“You hear that?” Vapor whispers.

A twig cracks and our world erupts into chaos.

Gunfire slices through the dense air—sharp, sudden, a blistering echo against the soft chorus of the bayou. We’re ambushed before we even see them, bullets zipping past like pissed-off hornets.

I dive to the ground, rolling behind a gnarled cypress. Vapor’s already there, returning fire with the cold precision that’s made him a legend in the NOLA underworld. The cartel goons are shadows flitting between the trees, but we’ve fought phantoms before.

“Left flank!” I bark out as I spot a silhouetted figure darting through the brush. My finger squeezes the trigger, the recoil a familiar punch against my palm. The figure drops, and I’m moving again, Vapor covering my back.

“Two more, ten o’clock!” His voice cuts through the gunfire, a lifeline in the cacophony. We move in tandem, breathing in sync, a deadly ballet choreographed by necessity.

Our attackers underestimated us. They don’t count on the bond of brotherhood that ties the UVMC tighter than any blood oath. The cartel men fall, one by one, their cries swallowed by the swamp.

Silence returns, oppressive and thick, as the last of the assailants lies still among the twisted roots. We check for stragglers, our senses razor-sharp, ready for anything.

“Clear,” Vapor says, his tone edged with the weight of survival. We share a nod, no words needed. Our search in the dark resumes, every second counting against us.

Then I see it—a small indentation in the mud. A footprint, delicate and unmistakable. Isabella’s. Relief surges through me so fiercely I nearly stagger.

“Over here.” I gesture to Vapor, pointing at the print. The sight of it ignites something primal within me, a feral blend of hope and fury. She’s alive. She’s close.

“Let’s go, brother.” Vapor’s presence is a rock in the shifting sands of this godforsaken place. I’m glad he’s by my side.

We push forward as quickly as we dare. Every step could be a trap, every noise a new threat, but none of it matters. Isabella’s trail is fresh, leaving breadcrumbs for us to follow. I’ll walk through hell itself to find her, to bring her home.

My boots sink into the muck with each labored step. The underbrush claws at my jeans like the talons of some mythical beast. Vapor’s right behind me, as silent as a ghost, his presence a constant reassurance in this tangled labyrinth of nature.

“Damn, it’s like walking through wet concrete,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

My arms are streaked with scratches, but I barely feel them. All that matters is finding Isabella before the bayou swallows her whole.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Vapor says, his voice low, almost lost amid the buzz of insects and the distant croak of frogs.

The trail we’re following is barely discernible. A broken twig here, a trampled patch of ferns there, but it’s enough. We’re on the right path. She passed this way recently, so she can’t be far now. The thought sharpens my focus, narrows the world down to the signs left by her passage.

“Look,” I whisper, pointing out a scrap of fabric caught on a thorn.

“Getting closer,” Vapor acknowledges.

A branch snaps underfoot, and I freeze, every muscle tensed. Was that us, or something else? The swamp is alive with hidden dangers, but human predators are the deadliest of all. The air feels charged, electric with the potential for violence.