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CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

I CHECKED THE clock again, four hours gone, and every second past two felt like a fuse burning toward something I couldn’t see.

They were just supposed to ride out to Oliver’s, simple visit, no drama, no threats on the radar. Drago was already rotting in the ground, and Chelsea had finally disappeared, her toxic voice gone quiet for the first time in years. So there was no reason for Lucy and Zeynep to be late, no reason for Zeynep’s phone to keep going straight to voicemail no matter how many times I called.

Brenda passed through the common room with a tray in hand, her footsteps slowing as she caught the look on my face. “Somethin’ wrong, Mystic?”

“You seen them?”

“They ain’t back yet?”

“No.”

Her lips pinched together, her gaze narrowing like she already knew something was off. “They said they’d be home by two.”

It was pushing four now.

I didn’t waste breath, I was already through the back door and crossing the yard, boots chewing up gravel as I made a straight line for the row of bikes parked under the oaks. Spinner was leaning against his bike, mid-conversation with Devil and Thunder, one arm casually slung over a bag of ice like he didn’t have a care in the world—until I tore the calm out of the air.

“Where the fuck are they?” I barked.

Spinner’s brow furrowed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Lucy and Zeynep. They’re not back. Phones are dead.”

His whole demeanor shifted—posture stiff, voice tighter. “They were just—shit.” He pulled out his phone, thumbing through texts with growing urgency. “Lucy hasn’t messaged me.”

Devil straightened, that cold, calculating glint sliding into his eyes like a switch had flipped. “You sure they were going to Oliver’s?”

“That’s what Lucy told Brenda this mornin’, and Zeynep told me before they left.”

Spinner had his phone to his ear now, pacing in tight circles as it rang. “Come on, pick up—Oliver? Are they there?” His expression darkened fast. “They never showed?” He hung up and cursed under his breath. “They didn’t make it.”

Thunder was already heading for the garage. “I’ll take the truck, run the route they should’ve taken.”

“We spread out, cover more ground,” Devil ordered, already walking toward his bike.

I didn’t wait for another word, I swung my leg over the saddle, the engine snarling to life beneath me like it felt the panic in my blood, and I peeled out of the lot like hell itself was chasing me.

The sun had started its slow descent by the time I hit the stretch of old country road that sliced through the woods, shadows getting longer, light breaking through branches like fractured glass. I scanned the tree line, the ditches, the empty road ahead, heart pounding so hard I could hear it over the wind and the engine.

Then my phone rang.

Zeynep’s name lit up the screen, and for a second, my lungs locked up.

I answered on the first ring. “Zey—” There was a pause, heavy and unnatural. Then her voice, soft, fragile, barely there. “Mystic…” I clenched the throttle tighter. “I’m here, baby. Where are you? Are you hurt?”Another pause, longer this time. Something about it sat wrong in my chest. “Mystic…” she said again, more strained this time. “Please… help me.”

The line went dead. I stared at the screen like it might give me an answer, might bleed the truth if I held it tight enough.

But it didn’t, and something inside me cracked wide open.

That voice wasn’t hers.

It sounded like her, but it didn’t feel like her—not deep in my bones where her voice usually settled. It was close, but too smooth, too precise—like someone trying to mimic what they didn’t understand.

I twisted the throttle and let the engine scream, not caring where I was going, just needing to move, needing to do something before that voice turned into a goodbye I couldn’t take back.

The road bent hard to the left, narrowing as it cut deeper into the woods. Up ahead, I spotted an old wooden marker, one Zeynep had once pointed to on a lazy afternoon ride, her voice soft as she wondered about the story behind it. That memory hit just seconds before someone stepped into the road.

I slammed the brakes, the tires shrieking as the bike skidded sideways across the gravel, throwing dust and heat into the air. The figure didn’t move, broad build, dressed head to toe in black, from the heavy boots to the tactical gloves. A full-face helmet covered everything, not a patch or insignia in sight.

He raised his hand, and aimed a stun baton right at my chest.

I went for my piece, but lightning surged through me before I could reach it.

Agony ripped through my body, my spine arching as I collapsed off the bike and onto the asphalt, my jaw hitting hard enough to rattle my teeth. The world blurred, shadows bleeding into light, pavement into sky.

Footsteps approached, slow, methodical.

The helmet tilted down as the man stood over me.

And then I heard her voice.

Not Zeynep.

Chelsea.

“I told you… if I couldn’t have you, no one would.”

Then everything went black.