Page 16 of Big Easy

BIG EASY

The bone-shaking growl of pipes slices through the stillness of the clubhouse, rattling the windows and rolling through the floor under my boots. The sound's got weight to it and loud enough to wake the dead.

Who the hell is rolling in?

I shove up from my seat, every muscle wired tight, and stalk to the door and throw it open.

Headlights cut through the dark as a convoy rolls into the lot.

Riggs leads the pack, Luna holding him tight, her hair whipping in the wind.

Wick rides close behind, Tequila on the back with a grin like she's up to no good.

Nova and Promise follow, Kiwi with Piper tucked against him, Fender and Jo right on their heels.

Everest's there too, with his new flame, London, and Catcher brings up the rear like he's guarding the tail.

The rumble dies in stages as they kill their engines, the air settling into that heavy, charged silence only a pack of bikers can leave behind.

I step out and meet them halfway, clapping Riggs hard on the shoulder as he swings off his ride. "What brings you to my neck of the woods, brother?"

He grins. "Thought we'd liven' up the opening of your new bar, The Last Ride," he says, gripping my hand in a shake, then smacking me on the back hard enough to jolt my ribs. "Us Kings are always lookin' for a good time, brother. Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

I laugh. "Hell yeah. I can get down with that. Come on in."

We file inside, boots heavy on the old floorboards, as greetings between the Kings and my brothers echo off the walls.

The Kings spread out, women kicking back on the couches, men leaning against the bar. The low rumble of conversation, mixed with the occasional sharp bark of a joke, fills the clubhouse.

I sit back in my chair, watching it all. This is the good stuff—brothers, their women, good friends, and good times to be had.

Should be perfect.

But it ain't.

Beneath the noise, something's off. It's like the air's gone heavy, pressing in on me. A fog settles low in my gut.

What the hell is taking Sutton so long?

I double-check my phone for the third time since Sutton texted, saying she would be here after making a quick stop by the apartment she shares with her friend. Swiping the screen, I give my girl a call. After a few rings, it goes to her voicemail.

I feel someone staring at me, and I look up from my phone. Riggs' eyes sharpen instantly. "Problem?"

I run my fingers through my hair. "Somethin' doesn't feel right," I mutter as I tighten my grip on my phone, causing Brewer to shift in his chair beside me with a concerned look.

"Sutton texted over an hour ago. She was stoppin' by her apartment before headin' this way.

She should have been here by now, and she's not answering her phone," I say.

The oppressive silence weighs down on me. The only way I'll get any relief from my worries is to go to her instead. I stand, shoving my phone into the pocket of my jeans and stride toward the front door. "I'm takin' a ride."

"I'm right behind you," Brewer shadows me.

"Hold up," Riggs doesn't hesitate and shoves himself from the table.

"I'll tag along." He turns toward a couple of his men, giving them a sharp chin lift.

"Wick, Catcher, you're with me. The rest of you, help Easy's men to secure the compound and keep eyes on the women.

Riggs' gaze slices back to me. "We're right behind you, brother. "

I nod sharply, not stopping to acknowledge anyone else, and storm out of the clubhouse.

The gravel crunches harshly beneath my boots as I march toward my bike, each step pounding with purpose.

No words are necessary as I start my engine.

There's an unspoken understanding. We're not just riding; we're heading into something that demands our silence and focus.

We ride together, no hesitation, no looking back as we pull away from the clubhouse into the darkness.

The entire ride to Sutton's apartment, I can't shake the uneasy feeling brewing in the pit of my stomach.

We roll into the complex's parking lot, the growl of our engines a clear warning to get the fuck out of our way.

I look around, noticing Sutton's car is missing, but Maci's is there.

It sets alarms in my head as Brewer dismounts and rushes to Sutton's apartment door.

"It's locked," says Brewer as he jiggles the knob.

Banging on the door, I yell. "Sutton. Babe, open the door!" A second passes, and I repeat the process. I exchange a look with the men, then we pull the weapons from our sides. Brewer steps out of the way. Taking a step back, I bring my foot up and kick in the door. The wood splinters at the hinges.

Guns drawn, we enter the apartment. Immediately, there are signs of a struggle.

We ease our way through, clearing the kitchen and living room before moving toward the two bedrooms. My stomach clenches the moment I step into Sutton's bedroom, finding her overnight bag on the bed, which looks like she was still in the process of packing.

Scanning the room, I spot her phone lying on the floor near the foot of the bed, beside her handbag.

I move around the room, searching for a clue, and think, trying to process what little we know, anything to point us in the right direction of finding Sutton. My feet stop moving the instant it dawns on me. "Peter Sanders." The muscles in my neck tense.

"The fucker you paid a visit to a few weeks ago?" Brewer questions as I brush past him.

"Call the men, and fill them in. Stay here and comb this damn apartment for any leads. Send Grim to meet me at the fucker's house." I order on my way to the front door.

"Wick, stay with Brewer." Riggs barks.

Not looking back, I rush toward my bike, throw my leg over the seat, bring her to life, and peel out of the parking lot, with Riggs on his bike close behind. On the way, Grim finally joins us, his bike pulling alongside mine as we rip through traffic.

The neighborhood is quiet as we roll down the street. There are no lights on, inside or out, as we approach Peter Sanders' home. Giving the signal, Grim, Riggs, and I cut the bikes' engines and coast the remaining distance, in hopes our presence isn't heard. "No car," Grim points out.

"Check the garage," I tell him.

Leaving our rides at the roadside, the three of us jog toward the house, drawing our guns.

Grim goes one way, heading toward the closed garage.

Keeping to the shadows along the house's sides, Riggs and I case the place, peering into every window.

We meet up with Grim around back. "I haven't seen any signs someone is home. "

"No red Mazda in the garage. Just a bunch of moving boxes," Grim supplies.

"His old man died a while back."

"Maybe he decided to leave town?" Grim states.

Which could mean Sanders isn't involved.

I'm not taking any chances. "My gut says otherwise, brother.

This fucker didn't appear to be mentally stable when I had words with him.

" I look around, thankful the closest neighbor is a reasonable distance down the road.

Using the butt of my pistol, I bust the windowpane on the back door.

Glass shatters, hitting the tiled floor inside and scattering on the wood porch at our feet.

Reaching through the broken window, I unlock the deadbolt.

The air in the house is musky, thick with a sour smell.

Walking through the kitchen, we step over piles of trash and unfinished takeout boxes.

A damn rat scurries from the inside of a pizza box lying on the floor.

Clearing the kitchen, we enter the living room before making our way down the hallway.

After finding every room empty, we head for the basement.

"It's locked." Grim twists the handle.

"Bust it down," I order.

Grim rears back, kicking the door a few good times before it flies open.

Aiming my weapon, I peer down the staircase.

It's so dark you can't see shit. Spotting a switch on the wall just outside the basement door, I flick it.

Nothing happens. "Shit." Behind me, Grim moves, then a light shines past my shoulder.

I glance back to find him holding his phone.

"We're right behind you," he states, and we make our way down the stairs.

Once we clear the last step, there is a small space toward the back of the room, dimly lit from the streetlights outside filtering through the small narrow window.

"There are no signs the son of a bitch is here," I say as Grim's flashlight scans the small space cluttered with boxes, some old cane back chairs, and broken picture frames.

I pull my own phone from my pocket. Using the light, I canvass every inch of the dank basement.

"Easy. Come take a look at this." Riggs snags my attention. Walking over, he's looking at empty camera boxes—small cameras used when you don't want them seen. I dig through the larger box they sit in, finding receipts.

"These were bought three weeks ago." I shuffle my feet and kick something that sounds like metal.

Shining my light to the floor, what appears to be a medium-sized tin box.

Slipping my phone in my pocket and tucking my weapon away, I pick it up.

"Shine your light on this," I instruct my brother.

Flipping the small latch, I open the box.

What I find sends chills down my spine—snapshots of Sutton.

I thumb through the stack of images. There are pictures of her leaving work, driving in her car, shopping, and on the back of my bike.

My body goes numb when I look at the following images.

Sutton is in her apartment, changing clothes.

Beneath the pictures, a scrap of lace catches my eye, and I tug on it, revealing a pair of black panties.

I fist the photos, crumpling the evidence in my hands, indicating that Sanders has been stalking Sutton.

Pent-up rage leaves my body as I throw the tin box across the basement.