Page 34 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

My heart hammers against my ribs as I wait, every second stretching into eternity.

“Got him,” she says finally. “Looks like he's at...that's weird.”

“What?” I ask, too quickly.

“His signal is at a warehouse by the airport,” Presley says. “But that doesn't make sense—there's no convention center anywhere near there.”

“Probably some underground nerd gathering. You know how he is about exclusive merch.”

“I guess,” she says, doubt creeping into her tone. “It's just...strange. The signal's been stationary for almost forty minutes. Usually when he's at these things, he's bouncing all over the place.”

“What's the address?” I ask, motioning for Ratchet to grab a pen.

She rattles off coordinates that Ratchet scribbles on his forearm. “Should I be worried?” Presley asks suddenly, maternal instinct breaking through. “It's not like him to ignore calls when it’s someone from the club.”

“Nah,” I lie smoothly. “His phone probably died. You know how he forgets to charge it when he's excited about something. I'll swing by and drag his ass home.”

“Thanks, Thor. Please find him before he spends all of his money on more toys. We barely have room for what he has now.”

I force a chuckle. “Will do.”

The moment I end the call, my facade crumbles. “Warehouse district. North Vegas. Let's move.”

“We should wait for backup,” Ratchet says, though his body language tells me he's already decided to follow me into hell.

“We don't know what we're walking into,” I finish for him, already heading for the van. “And I don't give a fuck. Every minute we wait is another minute he's?—”

I can't finish the sentence. Can't let my mind go there, or I'll lose what's left of my sanity.

“Wait,” Ratchet says, grabbing my arm before I can reach the door. “What about this place?”

I pause, looking around at the bullet-riddled walls, the blood-soaked floorboards, the wreckage of our temporary safe house. Evidence of our failure surrounds us like a shroud.

“Burn it,” I say without hesitation. “We're lucky the cops haven't shown up already with all this gunfire. Can't leave anything behind.”

Ratchet's face splits into that feral grin I've seen a thousand times before—the one that means something's about to meet its fiery end. “Music to my ears. I'll grab what I need from the van. Don’t forget to change your clothes.”

He's out the door before I can respond, already moving with purpose. Ratchet's always been most alive when destruction is on the menu.

I take the stairs two at a time, forcing myself into the bedroom Charlotte and I shared just hours ago. Her scent still lingers. I allow myself three seconds to remember her body against mine, her breath on my neck, her fingers tracing the tattoos across my chest.

Then I shut it down. Lock it away. Sentiment won't save her. Action will.

I grab my duffel, stripping down and redressing as fast as I can, and grab her suitcase, still neatly packed from when we left to dump Vincent.

I move to the living room, making quick work of V’s laptop and phone, stuffing them into my bag.

I'm about to head out when I spot something colorful peeking out from under the couch—V's Nintendo Switch, screen cracked and case partially melted from a stray bullet.

I snatch it up, shoving it into my duffel.

Another piece of my brother to carry with me.

Another reminder of what Terrance has taken.

Ratchet shoulders past me, arms loaded with plastic jugs sloshing with accelerants. The smell of gasoline fills the air, sharp and chemical.

“Five minutes,” he grunts, already unscrewing caps. “Then this place becomes Vegas's newest tourist attraction.”

I nod, moving methodically through the house.

V was paranoid—always had been—which means there are cameras hidden in every corner.

I reach up to the smoke detector in the hallway, popping it open to reveal the tiny lens inside.

Another behind a picture frame. One disguised as a power outlet.

I take them all, tucking each into my pocket.

Can't leave digital breadcrumbs for anyone to follow.

“Grab the camera from downstairs,” I bellow to Ratchet.

A few seconds later, he jogs back up the stairs, grabbing me by the arm as he passes. “Time to go. This place is about to become the world's biggest Molotov cocktail!”

We run to the van and peel out of the driveway.

Ratchet's handiwork is flawless—the fire spreads fast and hot, consuming evidence and memories alike. In the rearview mirror, I watch our temporary sanctuary become a funeral pyre.

Ratchet floors it, the van's engine screaming as we tear through the streets towards the airport.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.

My wife screams beautifully. Want to hear?

An audio file follows. My thumb hovers over the play button, trembling with rage and terror. I know I shouldn't listen. Know it'll destroy whatever sanity I have left. But I need to know she's alive.

The sound that emerges from my phone's speaker isn't human. It's raw, animal, the kind of scream that tears something fundamental inside your chest. Charlotte's voice, broken and desperate, calling my name through whatever hell Terrance has created for her.

“Thor! Please, Thor, I need?—”

The audio cuts off.

“Motherfucker,” Ratchet snarls. “He's baiting you.”

“I know. And it's working.”

Another text comes from the same number.

Still thinks you're coming to save her. Isn't that sweet?

A photo loads—Charlotte's face, bruised and swollen, eyes glazed with whatever drugs Terrance has pumped into her system. Her lip is split, blood trailing down her chin.

This is the last time you’ll see my wife alive. Enjoy it.

“New plan. We don't wait for backup. We don't scope the location. We go in hard and fast, and we paint the walls with their blood.”

Ratchet glances at me, concern flickering across his face. “Thor?—”

“No.” I cut him off, checking my weapons with mechanical precision. “They want to play games? Send me pictures of what they're doing to her? Fine. But when I get my hands on Terrance, I'm going to show him what real pain looks like.”

Ratchet's hand clamps down on my arm, his grip like iron. “Stop.”

“What?” I snarl, jerking away.

“He's baiting you. Sending photos and audio, he wants you charging in blind with your dick swinging and your brain offline.”

“Fuck!”

“If they figure out V has that smart watch on him...They'll know we're coming. They'll move Charlotte or worse.”

I force myself to breathe, to pull back from the precipice of rage I've been teetering on. “You're right.”

“Of course I'm fucking right,” Ratchet mutters. “Someone's gotta be the brains of this operation while you're busy planning your suicide run.”

Every cell in my body screams to respond to Terrance's taunts, to promise the slow death I'm going to deliver. But Ratchet's right. Silence is our only advantage now.

I stare at my phone, the glow of Terrance's message burning my retinas. My fingers hover over the keypad, itching to respond.

“Toss it. Wipe it and toss it out the window. Now.”

“What?”

“Your fucking phone, Thor. Ace might have his own V. If he can send you messages, he can trace your location. We can't risk leading them straight to us.”

Of course. I'm thinking with my dick instead of my head, exactly what Ratchet warned me about.

I quickly reset the phone to factory settings, watching as years of photos, messages, and contacts disappear in seconds. When the Apple logo reappears, I roll down the window and hurl the device into the darkness. It bounces once on the asphalt before shattering, lost to the night.

“Smart thinking,” I say, watching the phone disappear in the side mirror. “How'd you know to do that?”

Spent way too much fucking time with V. His techie shit is rubbing off on me.” He glances sideways at me. “Don't tell him I said that. Fucker's ego is big enough already.”

A ghost of a smile touches my lips at the thought of V's reaction. “Assuming he's still alive,” I mutter, the possibility of V's death like acid in my throat.

“He's alive,” Ratchet says with conviction I envy. “That stubborn bastard wouldn't die without making some smart-ass comment first.”

“Take the next right,” I tell Ratchet. The warehouse district near the airport looms ahead.

“Signal's getting stronger,” Ratchet says, turning onto a service road that runs parallel to the airfield.

The van's headlights cut through darkness, illuminating chain-link fences topped with razor wire.

Beyond them, private hangars stand like sentinels, their massive doors sealed tight against the night.

The GPS directs us down a narrow access road marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY . Ratchet slows the van, killing the headlights as we approach.

“There,” I point to a cluster of buildings at the far end of the airstrip.

The structure is larger than the others, its corrugated metal walls weathered by years of desert sun.

A small office building sits adjacent, windows dark except for a single light burning on the second floor.

Two black SUVs are parked outside—the same vehicles from the surveillance footage.

“That's gotta be it,” I mutter, scanning the perimeter. No obvious guards outside, but that doesn't mean shit.

Ratchet pulls into a visitor parking area about two hundred yards away, positioning the van between two empty delivery trucks. The engine dies with a shudder, leaving us in silence broken only by the distant drone of aircraft.

Ratchet takes back his phone, firing off a text. His thumbs move rapidly across the screen. “Sending Raze our location. If shit goes south, at least they know where to find our bodies.”

“That’s not as comforting as you’re trying to make it sound.”

“Believe me, the last thing I want is to die and for Ricca show up in hell with me to kill me again.”

My focus is locked on that hangar, on the faint flicker of movement behind the office window. My fingers twitch around the grip of my gun, muscles coiled so tight they might snap.

Charlotte’s in there.

I can feel it. And, when we go in, Terrance Roberts will wish he never laid a fucking hand on my woman because I will take both for what he’s done before I put a bullet into his head.