Page 26 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

DOG

I sit in the main room, the glow from the bank of monitors painting the walls in static blue. The security feed shows nothing but empty road, our battered bikes, the distant glint of the highway. No black sedans. No Russian muscle creeping in from the shadows. Still, my gut is twisted with unease.

I can’t stop thinking about Katya. I keep replaying the last time I saw her, the heat in her eyes, the tension in her voice. I tell myself she’s fine, that Bishop has her back, but it doesn’t help. Something is off. Something is always off when it comes to her.

Reaper walks in, shotgun slung over his shoulder, scanning the monitors with his cold, measured stare. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, hands on his hips, the air buzzing with nerves.

Finally I clear my throat. “You heard from Bishop?”

Reaper doesn’t look at me, but I see the tick in his jaw. “Should have checked in by now.”

I nod. “He’s not picking up.”

“Katya?”

“Nothing from her either.” I tap my foot, feeling every second stretch out, tight and sour. “What if this is a setup? What if she’s just bait?”

Reaper’s lips pull into a thin line. “You think she’s playing us?”

I want to say no, but doubt creeps in. I want to believe she’s more than just a pawn in somebody else’s game. Still, I can’t shake the possibility that we’ve been led into a trap.

Reaper voices my thoughts. “What if she sold him out? Could be bait to draw us in.” He breathes through clenched teeth, thinking. The room hums with old wiring and my pulse.

“If it’s a trap,” I say, “we’ll know soon enough.”

Reaper finally straightens, coming to a decision. “Get Twitch and Rooster. Check out the hotel. If you see anything weird, you pull back and call me. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“Copy that, Prez,” I say. I pause just before the door, looking back once more at the flickering cameras.

I can’t help the feeling that tonight is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

I grab my cut, adrenaline spiking as I head out into the night, the weight of the club and the mess we’re in settling square on my shoulders.

Out in the lot, Twitch is already swinging a bat, grinning like an idiot. Rooster stands beside him, eyes darting between us and the dark sky.

“Where we headed?” Twitch asks, bouncing on his heels.

“Marriott. Bishop’s late. We’re gonna find out why.”

Rooster nods, silent and steady, the kind of backup you want when shit goes sideways.

As I throw on my vest, the nagging thoughts return. Katya’s smile, her soft laugh, the way she leaned into Bishop. Part of me hopes she is innocent. The other part loads an extra magazine, just in case.

As we climb into the truck and roll down the drive, my mind is a mess of worry, anger, and something I don’t want to name. I don’t know if we’re walking into a war or just chasing shadows, but I do know one thing—if she’s innocent, I won’t leave Katya behind, no matter what happens.

We park an unmarked van across the boulevard from the Marriott, engine off, heat bleeding through the firewall. City lights throw gold across the windshield. I sit behind the wheel, Twitch beside me with binoculars, Rooster leaning forward from the back seat, shotgun upright between his knees.

The hotel entrance glows bright in the dark.

Two bellboys chat beneath the awning, but my eyes lock on three men near a black SUV at the curb.

Sports coats over cheap tracksuits, hair cropped close, jawlines hard.

One smokes, the other two watch everything without watching.

They don’t fidget, don’t laugh, don’t belong in a seaside Marriott at midnight.

“Russians?” Rooster whispers.

“Look like it,” I murmur. “Notice the gait. Heels heavy, toes out. Ex-mil.”

Twitch adjusts the focus. “Sidearm under left jacket. All of them.”

Another pair steps from the lobby, one checking a phone, the other scanning the lot. Same vibe. They speak quietly, a few words carrying across the street—guttural, familiar consonants I heard plenty of when Novikov’s crew visited the clubhouse.

That makes five.

I glance at the side entrance. Two more shapes stand in the alley light, talking low. Seven.

Bishop and Katya are somewhere inside with that Zaika big shot.

Rooster scribbles plate numbers on a pad. Twitch tracks hotel windows, pausing on the fourth floor where one curtain twitches and a silhouette crosses. Could be anyone. Could be Bishop. Could be our enemy lining up a shot.

My hand rests on the radio. One click and Reaper’s motorcycle crew will sweep in, but a frontal assault turns a hostage scenario into a body count. We need eyes first.

“Wait it out,” I say. “Give Bishop a chance. Five minutes.”

The Russians keep pacing, checking watches, talking into earpieces. Wind from the ocean pushes cigarette smoke across the road. I smell salt and asphalt and danger.

Five silent minutes stretch into ten, still no sign of Bishop or Katya. The Russians smoke, chat, and check their watches while my gut keeps screaming move .

“Time’s up,” I mutter. “I’m going in.”

Rooster raises a brow. “With what plan?”

“Improv,” I say and slip from the van before either of them can argue.

Crossing the boulevard, I cut behind parked cars to the service alley. Steam from a vent rolls over me, masking my approach to the employee entrance. Inside, fluorescent lights buzz over rows of laundry carts and a rack of hotel uniforms. Perfect.

I strip off my jacket, yank on a shirt, and realize it’s two sizes too small across the chest. I look like a bouncer who lost a bet with a tailor. Whatever. I cram the vest on top, tug a nametag from a mesh basket, and stick it crooked over my pocket. It reads “Earl.” I smirk. Earl it is.

I step into the hallway and almost collide with a teenage busboy hauling room-service trays. He blinks at me, eyes wide at the sight of my stretched buttons.

“Lost my regular vest in the dryer,” I say, puffing out my chest like I believe it. “Shrank three sizes.”

An empty room-service cart rattles out of a side door. The kid pushing it is skinny, earbuds in, humming to generic pop. I step in front of him, grin, and point at something behind him. He turns. I wheel the cart away before he can blink. He pulls a bud out, confused.

“Management needs this,” I say, puffing out my chest. Buttons groan. He shrugs and wanders back for another cart, never missing a beat of his song.

I cruise down the hall, trying to look bored. Around the corner, two housekeepers gossip while loading linen bags. I slow the cart, pretend to inspect a stack of plates, and listen.

“VIP on the east wing, fifth floor,” one woman says, knotting a bag. “Extra towels again.”

“Important guest,” the other agrees. “Security everywhere. Room five-fourteen.”

Bingo. That’s it, that’s the room I’m looking for.

Elevator mirrors show me the full effect—sleeves short on my wrists, collar choking my neck, vest misaligned. I look ridiculous. Good. Hotel staff blend in when they look ridiculous.

The elevator spits me out on five. Carpeting muffles the squeaky wheel just enough. I glide past a pair of guards outside a side room. They give me a quick once-over, decide Earl is harmless in his suffocating vest, and ignore me.

A pair of Russians rounds the bend. One glances at me, then at my tray of half-eaten cheesecake. He wrinkles his nose and waves me off. I nod, lips pressed in my best harried-waiter apology, and keep moving.

Fifth-floor air feels too thin, like every breath knows trouble is close.

I roll the cart past one side corridor, then another, counting heads.

Two by the elevator, three near the ice machine, another pair prowling the far end.

More voices leak from a stairwell. Fifteen men, maybe more, scattered but alert.

This is not a private dinner. Zaika either brought an army, or he’s nervous enough to act like it.

My right hand dips beneath the towel stack, fingers closing around the compact pistol taped under the top tray. I tuck it up my sleeve, let the cart glide to a stop outside suite 514, and straighten Earl’s ridiculous vest.

One knock. The door cracks open, guard peering out. His eyes flick from my face to the empty cart.

“Housekeeping,” I whisper.

He starts to shake his head. Too late. I jam the muzzle to his temple, shove him back into the suite, and kick the door shut with my heel.

“Where is she?” I say. “Where are they?”

The guard stammers in Russian, hands half-raised. Another man in the sitting area spins, shock widening his eyes as he reaches for a weapon. I flick the gun toward him. “Try it and you drop.”

I push the barrel harder against the first man’s skull. “Talk. Now.”

Adrenaline hammers in my ears, steady as the trigger under my finger.

A side door at the back of the suite flies open.

A mountain of a man steps through, fist twisted in Bishop’s collar.

Bishop’s face is bruised, one eye already swelling, but he’s conscious, struggling against a grip like iron.

The enforcer drags him forward and slams him against a column.

The thud rattles glassware on the bar cart.

I swing my pistol toward the brute’s chest. “Let him go.”

Three slides rack at once. Cold metal kisses the back of my neck, another barrel presses into my ribs, a third hovers near my temple. Every instinct screams to shoot, yet my finger freezes. One twitch and they’ll punch three holes through me before I drop the first target.

Bishop’s captor snorts, then shoves him face-first to the carpet. Bishop coughs, pushing up on one elbow, glaring at me as if to say took you long enough .

A slow clap drifts from the sitting area. Mikhail Zaika stands beside a marble coffee table, suit immaculate, eyes reptilian. He studies me like a curio. “Bold entrance,” he says in accented English. “But very poor math.”