Page 23 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

He tries to speak but dissolves into another coughing fit. His hand finally finds what he was reaching for, a pistol. But V's boot comes down hard on his wrist, the crack of bone almost lost beneath Holloway's howl of pain. The gun skitters across the floor, disappearing under the bed.

“That's not very friendly,” V says, his voice muffled behind the gas mask.

I step closer, uncapping the syringe as Holloway writhes on the floor. His training kicks in—even through the pain and gas, he lashes out with his good hand, catching me in the knee. I stumble but don't fall. The blow is weak, his coordination shot to hell.

“Hold him,” I order, and V drops a knee onto Holloway's chest, pinning him to the grimy carpet.

“You have no idea...what you're doing,” Holloway chokes out between gasps.

I crouch beside him, bringing the needle into his line of sight. He bucks against V's weight, desperation lending him strength. “Wait?—”

I don't wait. I drive the needle into his neck, depressing the plunger in one smooth motion. His struggles intensify for a moment, then gradually weaken as the drug floods his system. His eyelids flutter, fighting the inevitable.

“Night-night, asshole,” I mutter as his body goes limp.

I give V a sharp hand signal— grab him.

We each take an arm and drag Holloway’s deadweight across the floor, hauling him through the back door and into the cool night air. The gas is still thick, clinging to every surface, so I keep my mask on—lungs burning even through the filters.

V props Holloway against the wall and immediately gets to work, binding his wrists and ankles with zip ties. He doesn't need instructions.

I glance back toward the door. “Watch him,” I say through the muffled rasp of the mask. “I’ll grab what we need.”

V nods once, eyes already scanning the alley for potential trouble.

I step back inside, boots crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood. The gas hasn’t fully cleared—my vision blurs at the edges, throat raw despite the mask.

Holloway’s laptop sits half-sunk into the collapsed desk, the screen cracked but still glowing.

A stack of papers is scattered nearby, some pinned beneath a toppled chair.

I grab all of it—the laptop, the charger, every page that isn’t soaked or singed—and shove them into a cheap motel pillowcase I find on the bed.

I don’t have time to sort it. Just grab and go.

Because whatever’s on this hard drive or in these files?

It might be the chain that leads straight to Terrance.

And I plan to rip it link by link until I’ve got him by the throat.

When I step back outside, the pillowcase slung over my shoulder, Holloway’s head is slumped forward, chin to chest—completely at our mercy.

Just like Charlotte was supposed to be at his.

The symmetry isn’t lost on me.

We hoist him up between us, dragging him down the narrow alley and around the corner to the parking lot. The gas still clings to our gear, but the midday air is quiet. Too quiet.

Perfect time to disappear.

Holloway’s limbs flop like a rag doll as we carry him to the van. V slides the side door open, and we toss him in without ceremony. His head hits the metal floor with a solid thunk .

“Careful with the merchandise,” V mutters behind his mask.

“Fuck him,” I snap, slamming the door shut. “He doesn’t deserve gentle.”

We climb in—V taking passenger, me behind the wheel. I fire up the engine and ease the van out of the lot, smooth and steady. No rush. Just another delivery vehicle on another forgettable street.

We don’t speak until we’re four blocks out, gas residue still lingering in our gear, lungs working harder than they should.

Then, finally, V reaches up and pulls off his gas mask with a hiss of breath. I do the same, letting the stale air rush out as cooler oxygen fills my lungs.

Without a word, we both toss the masks into the back—where they land next to Holloway with a hollow clunk .

The drive back to the safe house feels longer than it should. My mind races with everything we've learned. Terrance hiring this professional kidnapper, the human trafficking operation, the connection to our club. The pieces fit together in a way that makes my stomach turn.

Holloway stays under the whole ride, whatever they used on that girl at the hotel working its magic on him now. Poetic justice.

“Dude's out cold,” V observes, checking on our cargo. “How long you think he'll stay that way?”

“Long enough,” I answer, pulling onto the highway.

V's phone buzzes. He checks it, then looks over at me. “Ratchet says everything's quiet at the house. Charlotte's asleep.”

Relief floods through me, loosening the knot in my chest. “Good. Let's keep it that way.”

When we pull up to the house, I park around back. Ratchet emerges from the back door. A crooked smile forms on his face when he sees us. “Do I want to know why you both look like you just walked out of a doomsday movie?”

V moves to the van’s sliding side door and opens it. “Brought you a present, Ratchy. Meet the guy who is after Charlotte.”

Ratchet's smile vanishes when he sees Holloway's limp form. “Jesus Christ. Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” I grunt, grabbing Holloway's shoulders. “Help me get him to the basement.”

The three of us haul him through the back door and down the narrow stairs. The basement's concrete floor and cinder block walls will muffle whatever comes next. I drop Holloway onto a metal folding chair.

“Zip ties holding?” I ask V, checking the restraints.

“Like a fucking vise, but I think he needs an upgrade. I have some chains up in the van.” V sets the pillowcase of evidence on a workbench, and heads back upstairs for the chains.

“Want me to wake him up?” Ratchet adds, cracking his knuckles.

“Let V secure him first before you do your thing. Charlotte still sleeping?”

“Yeah, but she was asking about you earlier. Seemed worried when you didn't come back.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest. She was worried about me. “She say anything else?”

“Just that she hoped you were being careful.” Ratchet's expression softens. “She's good people. Whatever this is about, she doesn't deserve it.”

I study Holloway's unconscious face—the strong jaw, the network of small scars. This is the man Terrance hired to drag Charlotte back to hell. The thought makes my hands clench into fists.

V appears a few minutes later with a coil of chains in his hand. “This should do it.”

Ratchet grabs them and secures Holloway to his new permanent address.

“Want some help, Ratchy?” V asks with a fucking smile on his face.

“I got this,” Ratch says, planting himself in front of Holloway. “He's not going anywhere.”

“Aww, fine. I’ll do my tech thing, I guess. You never let me have any fun,” he sulks.

“You look like shit, Thor. Go get cleaned up and see your girl. We'll keep our guest occupied until you're ready for the main event.”

I hesitate, adrenaline still coursing through my system, demanding action. “He could wake up any minute.”

“And when he does, he'll wish he hadn't.” Ratch's voice is matter-of-fact as he pulls a folding knife from his pocket, testing the edge with his thumb. “I can handle the warmup. You've done the heavy lifting. Now go. She needs to see you're in one piece.”

The mention of Charlotte drains some of the rage from my system. I glance down at myself. My clothes disheveled, knuckles raw and crusted with blood, the acrid smell of CS gas clinging to my skin. I'd scare the hell out of her looking like this.

“Fine. Twenty minutes. Don't start the real questioning without me.”

V looks up from the laptop he's setting up on the workbench. “Wouldn't dream of it, brother. This is your show.”

I take the stairs two at a time, muscles aching from the day’s violence. The house is quiet—eerily so. The kind of silence that makes your pulse feel louder than it should.

I stop outside Charlotte’s door and listen.

No movement. No sound.

I should let her sleep. She’s earned peace more than anyone I know.

But I need to see her. Just for a second.

I ease the door open, just enough to look inside.

She’s curled on her side, her hair a dark spill across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Sunset filters through the blinds, casting soft shadows across her bare shoulder and the curve of her spine.

She looks untouched by everything that happened today.

But I know better.

She’s still fighting her ghosts—just like I’m fighting mine.

I linger there, caught in the doorway, wishing I could step inside and close the distance.

But I don’t.

I let the image burn into memory, then pull the door shut behind me.

Because wanting her safe and keeping her safe?

They’re not the same thing.

And I’ve still got work to do.