Page 32

EVEREST

The clubhouse is quiet. It's almost too calm for my liking, and not sitting right. The hairs on the back of my neck have been standing up since London texted that she was staying late at the office to finish up with one more client, then swinging by Jonny’s for a bottle of wine.

I shouldn’t feel on edge knowing Catcher is with her, but I can’t shake this unease settling in my chest.

Her GPS ping has been locked in place in front of Jonny’s liquor for thirty minutes.

I recheck the app on my phone, tapping the screen with my thumb and refreshing it, hoping it will show her in motion. It doesn’t.

“You’ve checked that phone more times than Kiwi looks at himself in the mirror, " Nova says, lounging on one of the worn leather sofas with Promise tucked into his side.

I look at him but don’t respond, then recheck my phone.

“She still at Jonny’s?” Promise asks. “She texted me when she got there, asking if us women wanted red or white tonight.”

“Too long for my likin’,” I mutter, staring at my phone screen, waiting for the dot to move.

“Jonny probably got her and Catcher stalled. You know how the old man likes to talk,” Riggs states.

Maybe.

But one thing about my woman is that she doesn’t linger when she’s had a long day and wants wine.

The weight of Velasco’s threat hangs heavy. It’s been weeks of knowing we’re on the motherfucker’s radar, with minimal leads to his whereabouts or even what the bastard looks like. It’s like trying to catch a damn fart. You can smell the stench it leaves, but can’t see it.

My phone rings, with Jonny’s number lighting up the screen, then my stomach clenches as I answer. “Jonny?” The instant I say his name, the buzz in the room fades, and every eye falls on me.

“Everest,” his voice is frantic, winded, and pained. “God help me… they took her.”

I stop breathing.

“What?”

“They hit the store with guns drawn. They shot up the place.” He pauses, trying to catch his breath. “Catcher is down. He put himself between them and London. He took bullets to the chest and gut. It’s bad, really bad.”

“Fuck.” I’m on my feet, pulling at my hair, with nowhere to direct the wave of emotions slamming into my chest.

My world narrows to a single blinding point.

Blood pounds in my ears.

“Jonny. Listen to me. Do not let the cops touch the security feed.” It’s taking every ounce of restraint I have so as not to lose control.

“You got it,” he swears.

“Good. We’re on our way.” I hang up.

The moment I lower the phone, the silence in the clubhouse is suffocating.

“Talk.” Riggs is already on his feet.

“Men shot up Jonny’s. They took London.” The words feel like broken glass in my throat. “Catcher is down. Jonny says it’s bad.” I swallow hard.

Suddenly, everyone springs into action, rapidly checks their weapons, and approaches the door, each step fueled by urgency as Riggs barks orders. “Nova, Kiwi. Stay here. Lock this place down tight. If there’s any activity outside this clubhouse, shoot first.”

The air is thick and charged with the pressure you feel in your chest before lightning strikes as we burst through the clubhouse door. No one speaks. We’re all locked in and focused. Me? I’m riding a razor-thin edge between fury and control while my pulse jackhammers in my throat.

I throw my leg over my bike, start the engine, and twist the throttle, kicking up gravel and dust as I pull away. Leaving the clubhouse in my wake, my brothers behind me, our tires scream against the asphalt.

By the time we roll up to Jonny’s, the scene is a damn war zone of flashing red and blue lights.

We park our bikes where we can and push through the building crowd just as Catcher is being hauled out on a stretcher, with an EMT actively performing CPR.

My boots hit the pavement hard as I rush toward him.

His cut is soaked through, red blooming across his chest and abdomen.

There’s so much of it. His skin is pale and he looks like death.

The first responders waste no time loading our brother into the back of the ambulance and taking off.

My stomach sinks as I stand with Riggs, Wick, and Fender, our eyes fixed on the ambulance’s taillights.

“He’s a fighter. He’ll pull through,” Riggs says, but uncertainty lingers in his tone. There’s something unsettling in the air, an unspoken fear that clings to us all like a heavy fog as the ambulance disappears.

My gaze drifts and lands on Jonny sitting on the curb, hunched and clutching a blood-soaked towel to his forearm. His usually neat white hair is stained red, plastered to his forehead. His glasses are missing, and his lip is split.

The three of us push through the crowd that has gathered. I crouch in front of Jonny. He spots us. “Footage is in the back of my office. Password Whodat .” He holds out a key. “Office door is locked,” he says.

Riggs grabs the key, passing it to Fender. “Get the footage.” He looks down the sidewalk, and I shift my attention to a cop he’s locked in on. “Wick, you and Everest stay with Jonny. I’m gonna buy Fender time to get what we need,” Riggs says and walks away.

Jonny hangs his head. “I’m so fucking sorry.” He looks up at me, then stares past me with a glassy look in his eyes.

My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles pop.

Another ambulance rolls onto the scene. I stand slowly, rage pulsing in my veins. I don’t speak as the EMTs approach us. I’ve got nothing against Jonny. He did what he could. My anger is directed at the men who took my woman and are the reason my brother is fighting for his life.

“You hear these motherfuckers say anything. A name?”

Jonny squeezes his eyes shut, attempting to remember any detail that will help give us direction. “I’m sorry, no.” Jonny is loaded onto a stretcher, but before they roll him away, he grabs my arm. “Make them pay,” he says, his voice taking on a darker tone.

Wasting no more time, Wick and I slip past the yellow tape and enter the liquor store.

Inside, it looks like a scene out of a movie—nothing I haven’t seen before, but it hits differently.

There are collapsed shelves throughout the store, bottles of liquor shattered, broken glass everywhere, and the linoleum floor is covered with a thick layer of red.

Near the register, slumped in another pool of blood, is the guy Catcher took down, his mask half off his face, and a bullet right through the temple.

A few seconds later, we’re crammed into Jonny’s office at the rear of the store.

Fender has the security footage pulled up with a multiscreen feed from the store.

He’s hacked into the city and parish traffic systems in another window.

We watch in horror as the scene unfolds on the computer screen.

My heart races, and a cold wave of dread washes over me when I see my brother being shot.

As the chaos continues, my eyes fixate on my woman fighting for her life before being taken.

A knot tightens in my stomach. Then, Fender focuses on time-stamped images from the traffic cams.

“There.” He points. “The same van headed east. I lose them after they leave the main roads.”

“Where’s the last ping?” Riggs asks.

“Industrial zone. There are no cameras out there. Just warehouses, junkyards, and this.” He clicks a thumbnail, pulling up a satellite image of a dilapidated, abandoned hotel busted and surrounded by cracked asphalt and overgrowth.

“That’s the old Admiral Inn. It’s been vacant for years, used by squatters, drug deals, and it’s a known sex trafficking drop point.”

My pulse spikes.

“Then that’s where we look first,” Riggs says.

We head to our bikes, and a short time later, we roll up on the old, ground-level hotel.

The place looks like a graveyard, long abandoned, half swallowed by weeds and rot.

The air out here is heavy, stagnant, and sour.

Thick with something vile. Worst of all is the silence. We dismount fast, weapons drawn.

“We clear it room by room,” Riggs orders, his tone leaves no room for argument.

Wick breaks off toward the back of the building. Riggs moves south. I head north, weapon drawn, heart thundering, and London on my mind.

I enter the first room, the hinges creaking, and step inside.

The stench of mildew, mixed with rat feces, hits me first. My boots crunch over broken glass and used needles.

The room is empty. There’s nothing here but a reminder of how far people can fall.

I move on to the room next door. There’s a stained mattress on the floor, restraints hanging from an eye hook on the wall above it.

That sight alone nearly drops me to my knees.

The other rooms I clear tell the same story—an empty space and no trace of my woman. My chest tightens, and dread claws its way up my throat like a monster trying to rip me open from the inside.

She was here.

I feel it.

And I am too late.

“Place is empty.” I hear Wick’s voice just outside the room.

I let out a roar and slam my fist through the window. Glass explodes around my hand, pain blooming in my knuckles, blood trickling down my fingers.

We have nothing.

No direction.

No fucking time.

Then, my phone buzzes in my cut pocket, and I yank it out like it might explode.

Blocked number.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I answer, each word deliberate, like ice sliding off my tongue. “Who the fuck is this?”

There’s a pause.

Then, laughter. It’s distorted and warped like it’s coming from a broken speaker—different than before. The laugh is low and sinister. This motherfucker is enjoying himself, playing with me.

My stomach drops like I stepped off a cliff.

I put him on speaker.

“Velasco?” I growl.

“Perhaps.” There’s a second of silence, then, “You want her…” the voice drawls, followed by another laugh, deeper this time, malicious. “Come get her.”

My feet feel like they’re sinking into the concrete, and my jaw clenches so tightly I taste blood.

The voice chuckles again, slower.

Then it’s quiet again.