Page 33 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)

“Your mom isn’t happy the boys missed dinner,” I muttered, rummaging through the box of goodies Marabella had given me for the trip home. Picking out a deviled egg, I shoved it in my mouth and moaned. “Dear God, Wade, your mom sure can cook.”

And when I finished my third barbequed rib, that’s when I realized Wade hadn’t said a word since we left. Wiping my hands and face, I looked over at him and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t reach the boys,” he said through gritted teeth as he tried calling one of them. “See if you can reach Donut.”

Getting my phone out of my bag, I dialed Donut’s number, only for his phone to go straight to voicemail.

“Voicemail,” I said, trying Juju.

Nothing.

“Shit!” Wade roared, slamming his hand down on the wheel before handing me his phone. “Click the worm on the home screen. It’s the security app for the scrapyard. Go through the cameras and tell me what you see.”

Scrolling through the security app, I tapped on the camera feed for the scrapyard.

The first few angles showed nothing out of the ordinary, just rows of rusting metal and stacks of tires silhouetted against the fading daylight.

But as I switched to the camera facing the back entrance, my stomach dropped.

“Wade,” I whispered, my voice taut with unease. “There’s a black van parked behind the dumpsters.”

He shot me a sharp glance before his eyes darted back to the road. “Can you see the license plate?”

Zooming in on the feed, I tried to focus on the blurry numbers, but the angle made it impossible to make out. “I can’t see it clearly.”

“Try the other cameras,” Wade urged, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as the van disappeared from the next feed.

I switched to a camera overlooking the scrapyard’s main gate, my pulse hammering in my ears. The van was gone, but the faint silhouette of someone darting behind the stacks of tires caught my attention. “There’s someone moving near the east side,” I said urgently.

Wade muttered a curse under his breath. “Devlyn, find my brothers. They were stashing the shipment in the scrapyard. They have to be there somewhere.”

I tapped furiously on the app, cycling through every angle I could find.

The scrapyard was silent, but the tension in the air crackled loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

Panic clawed at me as I checked camera after camera.

Finally, I spotted movement again—two figures slipping behind a row of crushed cars.

I gasped. “Oh my God. I see Braveheart and Worm. They are moving slowly through the stacks. Fuck, Wade. They’re armed! They’re chasing someone!”

“Shit!” Wade barked, his hand gripping the wheel like a vise as I described the scene. “Are Braveheart and Worm closing in on whoever they’re chasing?”

“They’re closing in fast!” I exclaimed, my fingers trembling as I tracked the figures on the screen. “Braveheart’s got his hand on his sword, and Worm—he’s carrying something... Holy shit! He’s got a shotgun.”

Wade slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the vibration rattling through the truck. “Tell me you can see who they’re after.”

I switched to another angle, the camera panning along the dimly lit scrapyard.

The shadows morphed into jagged teeth against the moonlight.

Suddenly, the third figure emerged—a lean silhouette darting between the stacks of wrecked cars, joining Braveheart and Worm.

They moved with purpose, determination, almost as if this wasn’t the first time they’d been in this situation.

If I didn’t know any better, they looked like they were hunting.

“There!” I pointed at the screen as if Wade could see it. “It’s someone in a hoodie. I can’t make out the face, but they’re limping.”

“Damn it. Keep watching,” Wade commanded, his voice colder now, sharp with focus. “If Worm fires a shot, I need to know.”

As the seconds crawled by, my breathing synchronized with the rhythmic pounding of the truck’s tires against the asphalt.

The camera feed flickered as the hooded figure tried to squeeze through a narrow gap between the crushed cars just as someone new turned the corner, and for a split second, I caught the glint of his face and something metallic in his hand.

“It’s Donut. He’s got a weapon,” I said, my words barely above a whisper. “It’s small—maybe a knife. Wait a minute. Are those throwing stars?”

“Concentrate, Devlyn. You still need to find Thore and Juju. Do you see them?”

My eyes darted back to the screen, scanning every shadow and corner for any sign of Thore or Juju.

The tension in the air thickened, each second dragging like an eternity.

Braveheart and Worm were closing in on the hooded figure, their strides purposeful and unrelenting.

The hooded figure stumbled again, his limp more pronounced, and for a brief moment, I could see the strain etched in his body language as he tried to escape the scrapyard unscathed.

“I’ve got nothing on Thore or Juju yet,” I muttered, my voice tight with frustration. The scrapyard seemed like a labyrinth designed to swallow its inhabitants whole, every turn a potential dead end. “But if Donut doesn’t pick up the pace, he’s going to lose the hooded figure.”

Wade growled low in his throat, his knuckles whitening on the wheel. “Keep looking for the others. Donut can handle the intruder.”

The camera flickered again, static overtaking the screen momentarily before resolving into another angle.

My pulse quickened as I caught sight of a flash of movement—a figure darting behind a stack of rusted car doors.

This one was smaller, quicker, and even in the dim light, I recognized the swagger.

“Juju! I see Juju!” I exclaimed, relief washing over me briefly. “He’s in the northeast corner, moving toward that old bus shell. He’s got a bat. He’s spotted the hooded figure!”

“Find me Thore, baby. I need to know he’s okay.”

I scanned the monitors again, each flicker of static igniting a new wave of anxiety.

A deep, guttural roar echoed through the scrapyard, reverberating off the mangled metal like a ghostly warning.

My heart skipped a beat as I realized it wasn’t just the sound of machinery groaning under its own weight—it was Thore.

There he was, emerging from the shadows near the center of the scrapyard, his massive frame unmistakable even in the swirling haze of rust and dust. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, his knuckles bloodied, but he moved with the deliberate grace of someone who knew precisely what kind of chaos he was walking into.

In his right hand, he clutched a broken length of pipe, the jagged edge glinting menacingly under the flickering floodlights.

“I’ve got eyes on Thore!” I yelled, my voice cracking with a mix of relief and urgency. “He’s near the crane. Looks like he’s circling back toward Juju—he’s armed.”

Wade slammed on the brakes, and I looked up to find the entrance of Crawley Scrap Metal before me. Turning off the engine, Wade reached across and opened the glove compartment, removing two Glocks. “Stay in the truck,” he instructed, jumping out, then slamming the door shut.

Before I could utter a single word, I watched as he ran over to the gate entrance and slipped inside, leaving me alone in the truck.

My mind raced as I stared at the monitors, their glow throwing distorted shadows across the interior of the truck.

Wade’s departure felt like a sharp cut—an edge to the tension already coiled inside me.

The scrapyard’s chaos unfolded like a fever dream, the flicker of static rendering every movement ambiguous.

Juju’s bat swung into view across one screen; the hooded figure dodging with an agility that sent chills down my spine.

Thore, unwavering in his trajectory, moved like a storm building momentum.

Yet somewhere amid the swirling dust and clanging metal, I sensed an unspoken threat—one that neither the monitors nor Wade’s Glocks could fully prepare us for.

My attention darted between the screens, an unrelenting surge of adrenaline keeping me glued to the scene unfolding as I reached into the basket, grabbed a chicken leg, and bit into it. Wade was gone, but his words echoed in my head: “Stay in the truck.”

A command.

A warning, when the faint sound of a kitten’s cry grabbed my attention. As I looked around outside, I heard the cry again. Rolling down the window, I stuck my head out to see if I could find the little thing when I heard it cry once more.

Looking back at the screen, then hearing the cry, I reasoned with myself. “Find the kitten and get back in the truck, Devlyn. That’s all you have to do. Wade will never know. I’ll just tell him the kitten hopped inside because it smelled the food. Yeah. I would believe that.”

Cautiously sliding out of the truck, I tried to pinpoint the sound again.

The distant clang of metal and a faint gust of wind made the cry harder to locate.

The kitten’s mewling was fragile, almost lost in the scrapyard’s symphony of chaos, but it tugged at something primal within me—a need to protect, even amidst the madness.

I crept along the side of the truck, keeping one ear tuned to the scrapyard’s cacophony and the other straining for the faint cries.

Somewhere close, the kitten cried again, insistent and desperate.

I scanned the shadows, catching sight of a small, trembling form wedged between a leaning stack of crushed car frames and a broken chain-link fence.

“Gotcha,” I muttered, crouching down as I edged closer.

My fingers brushed against the jagged edges of scrap metal, and I winced, pulling my hand back before trying again more carefully.

The kitten, a scruffy little thing with matted fur and wide, terrified eyes, hissed weakly but didn’t move.

I scooped it up gently, the tiny creature trembling in my hands.

“Easy there,” I whispered, tucking it against my chest. Its heart raced, a rapid flutter beneath its fragile ribcage, when someone grabbed me from behind.

Well shit. Can’t explain this away.

The grip was firm and sent a jolt of panic streaking through me. I twisted instinctively, the kitten squirming against my chest, but whoever it was had the upper hand. Their voice came low and threatening, close to my ear, “You his bitch?”

“Excuse me?” I sneered as he spun me around.

Holy shit! It’s the hooded figure!

“You the Crawley whore?”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m no one’s whore, asshole,” I sneered just as I lifted my leg and kicked the fucker right in the balls. And when he dropped to the ground, gasping for air, I screamed for Wade and ran as if my life depended on it.