Page 35 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

THOR

Twenty minutes feels like twenty years when the woman you love is being tortured by her psychopath ex-husband.

I shift in the passenger seat as I scan the hangar for the hundredth time with the binoculars Ratchet found in the van. Nothing. No movement, no signs of life. Just metal walls and concrete, silent as a tomb in the midnight darkness.

“See anything?”

“Jack shit,” I growl. “Same as five minutes ago. And five minutes before that.”

My leg bounces with restless energy. Every second we sit here is another second Charlotte's at Terrance's mercy. Another second of the pain I promised she'd never feel again.

“They're in there. V's tracker hasn't moved.”

“Unless they found it and left it behind as bait.” The thought has been gnawing at me since we parked. “What if they're already gone? What if we're sitting on our asses while they load her onto some private jet?”

Ratchet's jaw tightens. “Then we track the plane.

Follow it to wherever they take her. Hunt them to the ends of the fucking earth.

But I don't think that's what's happening,” he continues, checking his phone again.

“V's signal is steady. Still in the same spot.

If they were moving him, we'd see fluctuations.”

A text pops up on Ratchet's screen. He angles it toward me, and I see a message from Raze.

ETA 3 hours. Hold position. Do NOT engage alone.

“Three fucking hours,” I snarl, crushing the binoculars in my grip. “She'll be dead in three hours.”

“She won't be,” Ratchet says firmly. “Terrance needs her alive for whatever sick game he's playing.”

I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the cool window. “I should have never let her out of my sight.”

“This isn't on you. This is your mole’s slut of a girlfriend’s fault and the psycho who won't let go of his ex-wife.”

“What if we're too late?” The words escape before I can stop them. “What if he breaks her before we get there?”

Charlotte's screams from that audio echo in my head, an endless loop of torture. Her bruised face flashes behind my eyelids every time I blink. Is she conscious? Is she fighting? Is she calling my name while that monster puts his hands on her?

Jesus Christ, what if she thinks I abandoned her?

My chest constricts, lungs refusing to expand.

The van suddenly feels like a coffin, walls closing in as scenarios play through my mind like a horror movie marathon.

Charlotte's body, broken and discarded. Charlotte's mind shattered beyond repair.

Charlotte loaded onto a plane, shipped off to become some rich bastard's plaything while I sit in this fucking van, useless.

“I can't do this,” I mutter, hand reaching for the door handle. “I can't sit here while she's in there.”

“Thor—”

“No,” I snap, turning on Ratchet with such fury he actually flinches. “You don't understand. I promised her. I fucking promised her he would never touch her again.”

Ratchet opens his mouth, probably to feed me some bullshit about patience, when his eyes suddenly lock on something over my shoulder. His whole body goes rigid.

He grabs my arm with an iron grip. “Look.”

I whip around. A small private jet appears at the far end of the runway, its engines humming low as it slowly makes its way toward the hangar. No lights, moving like a ghost in the twilight. The kind of arrival that doesn't want to be noticed.

“Fuck. He’s moving her.”

My blood turns to ice water. This is it—the transport Ace mentioned. The plane that will take Charlotte away forever.

“Suicide run it is.” His phone lights up as his thumbs fly across the screen. “Gear up.” He jerks his head toward the back of the van. “Get what you need. We're going in hot.”

I squeeze between the seats, moving to the cargo area where two large black duffel bags sit beside Charlotte's floral suitcase.

I tear the zipper open on the first bag, revealing our emergency arsenal, semi-automatics, pistols, and tactical shotguns nestled in foam cutouts.

The second bag yields more of the same—extra magazines, flash grenades, Kevlar vests.

“Pick your poison,” Ratchet says, joining me in the back. “Updated Raze. A load of help that will be for us, but at least he knows.”

I reach for the Glock 19 first, tucking it into my riding boot. Then the AR-15, checking the chamber before slinging it over my shoulder by the strap. Every movement is muscle memory, my body preparing for war while my mind stays locked on a single purpose. Charlotte.

“Vests,” I remind Ratchet, tossing him the heavier Kevlar. “These assholes shot up our house. They won't hesitate to shoot us, too.”

“Won't do much good if they aim for our head.”

“Then I suggest we shoot first,” I grunt, strapping on the vest. It hugs my chest, a familiar comfort that's saved my life more times than I can count. “Aim for the head, and don’t miss.”

Ratchet checks his weapons with practiced efficiency, his face a mask of cold determination. “You think V's still alive in there?”

“He better be.” I tuck extra magazines into my pockets. “Otherwise, I'll kill him myself.”

I load a final round into the chamber of my sidearm. “Ready?”

Ratchet nods, then hesitates. “You know this is probably a trap, right?”

“I'm counting on it. They want me? They'll get me. And every ounce of hell I can bring with me.”

We slip from the van like shadows, keeping low as we move across the tarmac. The jet has stopped about fifty yards from the hangar, its engines still humming. No stairs have been deployed yet, and no movement is visible through the tiny windows.

“Hold,” I whisper, raising my fist as we reach a stack of shipping containers. We crouch behind them, the metal still warm from the day's heat. “Let's see what we're walking into.”

The hangar door groans open, metal scraping against concrete with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Two figures emerge—men in Heaven's Rejects cuts, weapons slung casually across their bodies. They approach the jet with the easy confidence of men who think they're untouchable.

“Ace's men,” Ratchet breathes beside me.

I adjust my grip on the AR-15, finger hovering near the trigger. “Two of them. Possibly more inside.”

“We take them quiet if we can,” Ratchet murmurs. “Save the noise for when we need it.”

I nod, my focus narrowing on the task at hand.

The men reach the jet, one speaking into a radio while the other scans the perimeter. Their backs are to us—a mistake they won't live long enough to regret.

“Now,” I breathe, and we move as one, emerging from behind the containers like wraiths.

Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. The men remain oblivious, too focused on the jet to sense death approaching. At five yards, one finally turns.

“What the?—”

Ratchet's knife finds his throat before he can finish, silencing him with brutal efficiency.

I take the second man from behind, arm locked around his neck.

I squeeze until his struggles cease, his body going limp.

Both men drop to the tarmac without making a sound beyond the soft thud of dead weight hitting concrete.

“Drag them behind the containers,” I order, already moving. We can't afford to leave bodies in the open where they might be discovered.

Ratchet nods, grabbing the first corpse by the shoulders while I hoist the second. It’s awkward, but we manage to haul them out of sight quickly. I rifle through their pockets, finding radios, extra ammunition, and a set of keys that might prove useful.

“Two down,” Ratchet says, wiping blood from his blade on the dead man's vest. “How many more do you think?”

“Doesn't matter.” I check the radio frequency, listening for chatter. Static, then a voice crackles through. “Transport team, what's your status?”

I exchange glances with Ratchet, then key the radio. “All clear. Standing by.”

“Copy that. Package is being prepared for transport.”

Package. They're talking about Charlotte like she's fucking cargo.

My vision goes red around the edges, rage threatening to overwhelm. Five minutes. Whatever they're doing to her in there, it ends in five minutes—one way or another.

“We go now,” I growl, shouldering the AR-15. “Before they bring her out.”

“Wait,” Ratchet grabs my arm before I can move. “The plane. We need to disable it. If there's no plane, they can't transport her anywhere.”

My mind clicks into gear. “You're right. No escape route means more time.”

“I'll handle the jet,” Ratchet says, already pulling tools from his pocket. “You get inside, find Charlotte and V. I'll join you once it's done.”

“You sure?”

“Two minutes, tops. I'll put that bird down for good. Go. Now.”

I nod once, then sprint toward the hangar, keeping to the shadows.

The door stands partially open, a sliver of light spilling onto the tarmac.

I press my back against the corrugated metal wall, listening.

Voices inside—at least three distinct ones.

Movement. The scrape of heavy objects being dragged.

The radio at my hip crackles again. “Transport team, respond.”

I ignore it, switching it off. They'll know something's wrong soon enough.

Easing around the edge of the door, I peer inside. The hangar is large, mostly empty except for a small aircraft at the far end—some rich bastard's toy—and stacks of crates along the walls.

A windowless room is in the back corner. The door heavily guarded.

My eyes lock on it immediately—a metal box built into the far corner of the hangar, like a prison cell dropped in the middle of an airport. No windows. One steel door. Two armed men standing sentry outside, automatic weapons held at the ready.

Charlotte.

I can feel her presence like a physical pull, drawing me across the open space between us.

I duck behind a stack of crates as one of the guards shifts position, scanning the hangar. His partner leans against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, the Heaven's Rejects patch on his cut gleaming under the harsh lights.

Traitors. My brothers. Men who'll die tonight for what they've done.