Page 22 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

THOR

The speedometer climbs past ninety as rage fuels my driving. Vincent fucking Holloway. The name loops through my head like a death sentence—his, not mine.

“Ease up on the gas, brother. Can't kill this asshole if we wrap ourselves around a telephone pole first.”

V braces one hand against the dashboard, the other flying across his phone screen. I grunt but let up slightly, just enough to keep us from becoming roadkill. The van’s engine sputters beneath us. These things were made for moving cargo. Not for speed, but I don’t give a fuck.

“Talk to me,” I demand, weaving through traffic. “What do we know about Holloway?”

V whistles low, eyes locked on his screen. “Ex-military for sure. Army Rangers, two tours in Afghanistan. Dishonorable discharge five years ago.”

“For what?”

“Excessive force during an interrogation. Beat a civilian half to death.” V's voice hardens, “Guy's got a reputation for wet work since then. Independent contractor, specializes in retrieval.”

“Retrieval,” I spit the word like poison. “You mean kidnapping.”

“Among other things. He's ghost-level connected, minimal digital footprint, but what's there isn't pretty.” V scrolls through something on his phone. “A guy like this isn’t going to go quietly.”

“Good.” I take the next turn hard enough to make the tires squeal. “I'm not in the mood for quiet.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out a syringe with amber liquid, still capped and intact. “Pulled this off one of the three assholes. Might level the playing field.”

“That their knockout juice?”

“Same shit they used on that girl. Figured it might come in handy.” I toss it to him. “Keep it safe. If this Holloway fucker thinks he's hunting, let's show him what it feels like to be prey.”

V tucks the syringe carefully into his inside jacket pocket. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Loop Ratchet in. If this shit goes south, he needs to take Charlotte and get her to Upland. She'll be safe there.”

V's already texting. “You expecting this to go sideways?”

“I'm expecting anything. This guy's a professional, but so am I.”

V snorts, shooting me a sideways glance. “Never thought I'd see the day. You’re ready to wage war over a woman you’ve known for what, forty-eight hours?”

“Shut up.”

“No, no. This is special.” He's grinning now, the asshole, “I've seen you beat men to pulp for disrespecting the club or for crossing business lines. But this?” He gestures toward the road ahead. “This is personal. This is...” he whistles low, “...this is a man in love.”

“It's not like that,” the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

“Bullshit. You're ready to take on ex-military, human traffickers, and God knows what else for a woman you just met.” V shakes his head, “And I thought I fell hard.”

“Didn’t you catfish your wife?”

V shrugs, “Maybe a little, but I still got the girl.”

“She's under our protection,” I growl, but the excuse sounds weak.

“Under your protection,” V counters. “There's a difference. The way you look at her…like she's oxygen and you've been drowning your whole life.”

I say nothing, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. “You saw us together for five fucking minutes, and you think you have me all figured out?”

“Not judging, man. Maybe it’s the leather or we’ve smelled too much gasoline, but for whatever reason, when a Reject falls for a woman, it’s hard and fast. We should use that for our club motto.”

The Desert Palms Motel sign appears in the distance.

The motel is exactly what you'd expect, a single-story, L-shaped building with peeling paint and parking spots right outside each door. Perfect for quick exits. Perfect for ambushes, too.

I kill the engine. We sit in silence for a moment, scanning the row of doors, each one a possible hornet's nest.

“How do we play this?”

“No idea which room is his,” I mutter, studying the layout. “Office is there.”

The office sits at the corner of the L, a sad little box with flickering neon announcing, VACANCY, in faded red. I can make out a silhouette behind the grimy windows—someone hunched over a desk.

“I'll handle it,” V offers. “Less likely to scare the shit out of them than you looking like you're here for murder.”

“I am about to commit murder.”

“That's my point.” He slides out of the van. “Give me five minutes.”

I watch him saunter toward the office, transforming from biker to unsuspecting customer with a roll of his shoulders. The man's a chameleon when he needs to be.

My phone buzzes. Ratchet.

Got your text. Can be there in 15.

I type back.

Stay with Charlotte. Don't let her out of your sight. This could be a diversion. If you don’t hear from us, bug out.

Because that's what I'd do if I were Holloway, create a distraction, draw me away, then move in on my real target. The thought makes my blood run cold.

V emerges from the office, moving with purpose now. He slides back into the passenger seat and slams the door. “Room twelve. Last one on the end.”

“How'd you get that so easy?”

“Slipped the desk clerk a hundred. Asked about a white guy, ex-military type, staying alone. Clerk says he's been here three days. Pays cash, keeps to himself.”

I scan the row of doors until I spot number twelve, a corner unit, partially obscured by a scraggly palm tree. The curtains are drawn tight. No light visible from outside.

“You see his vehicle?”

V points to a black SUV with rental plates parked two spaces down from the room. “Betting that is his. Tinted windows, generic model. Exactly what I'd choose for surveillance work.”

I run through scenarios in my head, weighing options. “Front approach is suicide if he's waiting. He'll have a clean shot the moment we knock.”

“Could wait him out,” V suggests. “He's gotta leave eventually.”

“No time,” I check my watch. “If he's got eyes on the resort, we just gave him one hell of a show to watch.”

“I can pretend to be housekeeping,” I glare at him, and the fucker smiles back at me. “Works in movies.”

“Do you think a place like this is going to have a housekeeper?”

“Fair point. Exterminator?”

“No,” I groan.

I study the layout of the motel, noting the narrow walkway that runs behind the rooms. Most of these cheap places have rear exits, part of a fire code requirement. Might be our way in.

“Back exit,” I murmur, nodding toward the narrow alley behind the building. “Most of these shit holes have rear doors.”

“Could work. But if he's as professional as his record suggests, he'll have that covered too.”

“Maybe. But professionals get cocky. They expect amateurs.” I grab the syringe from V's jacket pocket. “Let's give him something unexpected.”

We circle around the building, staying low, using the parked cars for cover. The alley behind the motel reeks of garbage and piss, littered with broken bottles and discarded fast food containers. Perfect camouflage.

Room twelve's back door is there, just as I suspected. Heavy steel with a deadbolt, but the frame looks like it's seen better decades. More importantly, there's a window beside it—small, high up, but big enough.

“Boost me up,” V demands.

I lace my fingers together, creating a stirrup. He steps up, peering through the grimy glass before he waves to me to lower him down.

V pulls me away from the room, far enough he can’t hear us talking, “The room is dark except for the blue glow of a laptop screen. I can make out a figure hunched over the desk, back to the window.”

“Has to be him.”

“The window's unlocked. Latch was loose.”

“One second,” V mutters. “Gotta get something from the van.”

V jogs back to the van. Every second feels like an eternity, my nerves humming with anticipation. This is it. Holloway's time is up.

V returns in less than a minute, his footsteps silent on the cracked pavement. When I turn, he's grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, holding up two tactical gas masks and what looks like a military-grade smoke canister.

“Where the fuck did you get those?” I ask, eyeing the equipment.

“I come prepared for all occasions.” V hands me one of the masks. “Remember that gun runner in Phoenix? The paranoid dude with the bunker? Let's just say I walked away with more than my share of the deal.”

I take the mask, checking the seal and straps. “Smoke bomb, too?”

“CS gas, actually.” V's smile turns predatory, “Not lethal, but it'll fuck him up long enough for us to get the drop on him.”

“Jesus, V.” I'm impressed despite myself. “Remind me to never underestimate your crazy ass.”

“That's what I keep telling everyone.” He checks the pin on the canister. “Plan's simple. I pull the pin, toss it through the window, we wait twenty seconds, then go in hard and fast. Masks on before we breach. You stab him in the neck with the night-night juice.”

I nod, slipping the mask over my head but leaving it resting on my forehead for now. “On my count. Three...two...”

V yanks the pin and hurls the canister through the window in one fluid motion. Glass shatters, the sound sharp in the desert air. We press ourselves against the wall, counting down the seconds.

The gas hisses as it deploys, and within moments, I hear coughing from inside the room. Violent, choking sounds that tell me our surprise worked.

“Now,” I growl, pulling the mask down over my face.

V kicks the back door. The rotted frame splinters like kindling, the door flying inward. We rush through the breach, moving fast through the cloud of white gas that fills the room.

Holloway is on his knees beside the overturned desk, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other fumbling for something on the floor. Tears are streaming, his face is red and blotchy from the chemical assault. He looks up as we enter, and I get my first good look at Charlotte's nightmare.

He's exactly what I expected—short haircut, lean build, cold eyes. The kind of man who is comfortable with violence. Who enjoys it.

“Vincent Holloway,” I announce, circling him like a predator. “We need to talk.”