Page 19 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

CHAPTER TEN

Oskar

The map spread across the chapel table is covered in red marks.

Dead ends. Failed leads. Places Thiago isn't.

It's been hours since he took Ivar.

Hours of chasing ghosts while Elfe falls apart next door.

Hours of me failing at the one thing I'm supposed to be good at—hunting people down.

The warehouse district was a bust. Three safe houses checked and empty. Every contact questioned and fucking useless.

The coffee's gone cold but I drink it anyway.

"Anything?" Magnus asks, though he knows the answer.

He's asked the same question every twenty minutes like maybe this time will be different.

"Traffic cams lose the SUV at the county line," Vanir reports, not looking up from his laptop.

Dark circles under his eyes, three empty energy drinks by his elbow.

The man is one more away from a heart attack.

His fingers haven't stopped moving in hours. "After that, nothing. He knew where the cameras were. Avoided them or had plates swapped. Maybe both."

"Fucking ghost," Dag mutters from across the room.

He's been pacing for the last hour, wearing a groove in the floor. "How does someone just vanish with a whole ass person?"

"Practice," I say quietly. "Thiago always knew how to disappear."

Even as kids, he could vanish when shit got bad.

Cops coming? Thiago's already three blocks away.

Parents looking for someone to blame? He's gone in the wind.

It was a talent that kept him alive in our neighborhood where being visible meant being a target.

The room's full of members.

Runes at the head, president's patch heavy on his shoulders.

Cigarette burning between his fingers even though we banned smoking in here years ago.

Nobody's going to tell him no today.

Fenrir—my father—in his corner, watching everything with those eyes that miss nothing.

Still as stone but I know he's processing everything, planning ten moves ahead.

Tor and Dag arguing about search sectors, their voices rising and falling like a tide.

Regnor on the phone with contacts, speaking rapid Spanish to someone who owes him favors.

Everyone doing something except finding Ivar.

"Los Coyotes safe houses?" Runes asks.

"All empty," Magnus confirms. "Either they don't have him or they're keeping him somewhere off the books."

"Or Thiago's not taking him to Los Coyotes at all," I suggest. The thought's been eating at me like acid. "He's using them, but he's not loyal to them. This is personal. Everything with him is personal."

"Personal how?" Tor asks. "What's this fucker's deal? Why take Ivar if he wants the girl?"

I should tell them, should have told them hours ago, but the words stick in my throat like broken glass.

How do you explain a friendship that went from brotherhood to this?

How do you explain Thiago without explaining myself?

"Check properties from our childhood," I say instead. "Places we used to go. Abandoned buildings, old hangouts. He'd want somewhere familiar. Somewhere with meaning."

Vanir starts typing. "Give me specifics."

"The old Morris farmhouse off Route 9. Abandoned warehouse district by the river. That closed-down motel on Highway 44—the Starlite."

Each place holds memories I'd rather forget.

Getting drunk on stolen whiskey for the first time.

Learning to fight with broken bottles and desperation.

Planning futures that never happened.

"He knows them all. We mapped out the whole county when we were kids. Every hiding spot. Every escape route."

"Why?" Magnus asks. "What were you running from?"

"Everything. Nothing. Just running to run."

But that's not true. We were running from who we were supposed to become. Funny how we became it anyway.

"I'll send prospects to check," Magnus says, already texting.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

My chest tightens like a vice.

She's breaking down beautifully. Threw a glass at the wall. Rio's trying to calm her but she won't stop crying. Should see how she shakes.

I delete it.

I don't need the distraction.

Don't need to think about Elfe right now when I can't fix anything.

Can't save her father. Can't protect her from the truth that's coming.

"Got something." Bodul, one of the prospects, knocks on the door.

Runes hollers for him to come in and the kid's out of breath, sweat running down his face despite how chilly it is this January. "Black SUV spotted at the warehouse district an hour ago. Bartender at Lowlifes saw it heading that way. Said it was moving fast, like someone was running."

Everyone moves at once.

Weapons checked, safeties off.

Bikes starting, engines roaring to life like war drums within minutes.

But I know before we get there—Thiago's already gone.

This is bread crumbs.

He wants us to find something, just not him.

It's how he plays. Always has.

The warehouse is exactly as I remember it.

Broken windows like dead eyes staring at nothing.

Graffiti covering cinderblock walls—new tags over old ones, layers of history nobody cares about.

We used to come here to drink stolen beer and pretend we were harder than we were.

Now I'm here looking for my girlfriend's father, taken by my dead best friend who isn't dead.

The irony tastes like rust.

"Blood," Tor calls out from the loading dock. "Fresh. Still wet in places."

We follow the trail inside.

More blood—droplets leading deeper into the darkness.

Zip ties cut and discarded, bloody from where they cut into wrists.

A chair with rope marks on the arms, wood worn smooth from struggle.

Ivar was here. Tied up. Bleeding.

But breathing—the blood pattern suggests movement. Struggle. Fight.

"He's alive," I say. "Or was an hour ago."

"But where the fuck is he now?" Dag kicks an empty oil drum.

The sound echoes through the empty space, bouncing off concrete and coming back hollow.

I study the scene. This is staged. Deliberate.

Every detail here has been placed with purpose.

Thiago wants us to know Ivar was here.

He wants us to see the blood—the fear. The futility. But why? What's the game?

Then I see it.

Scratched into the dust on a broken window. "TICK TOCK."

"He's fucking with us," Magnus says, reaching the same conclusion. "Leading us around like dogs chasing our own tails."

My phone buzzes again:

Getting warmer. But still so cold. Better hurry. Daddy's looking pale. He keeps asking for his little girl. Should I tell him what we've done to her? What we've watched her do?

This time I show Magnus.

His face darkens like storm clouds.

"That's him? Thiago?"

"Yeah."

"How does he have your number?"

"We grew up together. He knows everything about me." The admission burns coming out. "My phone number. Where I live. How I think. Everything."

The weight of that admission hangs in the air.

Everyone processing that the enemy isn't some random cartel soldier but someone from our past.

My past.

Someone who knows our weaknesses because he helped create some of them.

"Jesus Christ," Rio breathes. "You're saying this psycho knows club secrets?"

"No. He was gone before I prospected. But he knows me. And Emil. That's enough."

"Enough for what?" Tor demands.

"Enough to predict what we'll do. Where we'll look. How we'll react."

"We need to regroup," Runes decides. "Back to the clubhouse. This ain't working. We're playing his game on his board."

The ride back is bitter.

Twenty minutes of wind and engine noise that can't drown out my thoughts.

Failure tastes like copper in my mouth.

We're no closer to finding Ivar.

No closer to stopping Thiago.

Just running in circles he's drawing for us like we're rats in his maze.

Back at the chapel, I'm staring at the map when my father approaches.

He moves quietly for a big man.

A lifetime of violence taught him to walk soft, strike hard.

He's wearing his old cut, the leather so worn it's soft as cloth.

The patches tell stories of decades in this life.

"Outside," he says. Not a request.

We stand in the parking lot, afternoon sun beating down like judgment.

He lights a cigarette, offers me one.

I take it even though I quit years ago.

Today seems like a good day for bad habits.

"You're distracted," he says after a long drag. Smoke curls between us like secrets. "This is more than just Ivar being taken."

"It's complicated."

"Most truths are." He studies me with those eyes that used to catch every lie when I was a kid. Still do. "This Thiago. He means something to you."

"We were close. Before."

"Like a brother?"

"Something like that." I take a drag, let the smoke burn. "We had plans. Stupid kid shit. We were going to leave this place. Make something of ourselves. Not end up like our parents—broken, drunk, violent, no offense. We were going to be different."

"What happened?"

"Life. Reality. He went to Mexico chasing some girl. I stayed. Heard he died down there. Moved on. Except he didn't die. Just became something worse."

"And now he wants your woman."

It's not a question.

Dad always could read situations like books, probably why he survived this long in this life.

"He's been watching her," I admit. "Maybe longer than I have."

My father's eyebrow raises slightly. The only sign of surprise. "And how long have you been watching her?"

The question I've been dreading. The truth that burns worse than whiskey on an empty stomach.

"Close to eight months. Since the first attack. Runes assigned me to watch for threats to families. I chose her."

"But it became more than that."

"Yeah. A lot more."

"Does she know?"

"About the surveillance?" I take a long drag, let smoke burn my lungs. Hold it until it hurts. "Probably not. I've been careful."

"Careful." He laughs but there's no humor in it. Just disappointment that cuts deeper than anger would. "That’s what we're calling lying now?"

"I'm protecting her."

"You're protecting yourself. From her reaction. From her anger. From losing her when she finds out." He drops his cigarette, crushes it under his boot with deliberate precision. "Secrets are cancer, son. They eat everything good from the inside. Learned that the hard way with your mother."