Page 47 of The Loves We Lost

Briar blushes a little at the compliment. “I’d love that. I’ll add you to our group chat.”

“You’ll be okay out here for a while?” Miles asks.

I’m used to discussing my books with readers. It’s fun. This is my joy. I already have something in common with Briar. “We’re good.”

And I mean it in all the ways I possibly can.

17

BATES

Later that evening, I duck down behind the old outbuilding just south of Clarksburg, a thirty-minute drive from the clubhouse. I’m hidden out of sight with Niro, Catalina, and Halo. The dirt is harder than concrete because of the lack of rain. Humidity clings to my skin, making everything worse, even though it’s one in the morning.

Mosquitos nip when they land, annoying the hell out of me.

“Fuck me, it’s cramped here,” I mutter as I stare over at the run-down farm building.

Niro glances at me. “Yeah, well, next time you want to get your photo taken with a bunch of women who then create a hashtag for the club, remember this.”

That’s how they’d found out about Vi.

At the signing, some of the women who had their picture taken with Halo and I had posted them online. Most had used hashtags about us beingman crush Mondaysandhump day hotties,but a few had hashtagged our real club names. And somehow#ironoutlawsmchad led to us being traced.

At least, that was Vex’s theory. After checking the club’s security footage with license plate databases, we traced AmosGreene, owner of the van used to toss the Molotovs. From the Greene’s social media, we found out more about his life, beliefs, and friends we believe to be members of the Righteous Brotherhood. His posts were a litany of bullshit memes about too many people crossing the border and racial superiority.

And from a solid day of stalking today—digitally by Vex, and in person by Saint and Spark—we now had him and his friends cornered in this farmhouse.

“I’m gonna kill those fuckers,” I say. I prepared for the trip carefully. Sure, I had my SIG. But I also had knives, and I wouldn’t settle until there was blood on them from every man who tried to hurt my family. Might not even wash them. Just leave the blood there as a reminder to never be complacent about their safety and security ever again.

Saint would probably have my ass. The former ATF agent is always banging on about how the bureau aggregates profiles and causes for arrest for every member of what they refer to asoutlaw gangs. He’d lose his shit if he knew I was walking around with DNA evidence on my person.

“We aren’t moving until Saint and Vex confirm numbers,” Cat says. Saint, an expert marksman, is up on a neighboring roof. Vex is giving us drone cover.

“She’s really your kid?” Halo asks as he sits calmly. His back is against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, taking up more than his share of the tight space.

I nod.

“Wow. Daddy Bates. She know why you got the name?”

“I’m hoping she never asks.”

Halo looks down at the knives on my belt. “Think she might guess.”

“Can you two shut up?” Catalina says.

“Four heat signatures in the back of the house.” Vex’s deep voice rumbles through the earpiece I’m wearing. “Two more out front.”

“We’ve got the two out front,” King says from his position with Switch, Saint, and Clutch at the front of the building.

Six of them. Ten of us. I like those odds.

“We’ve got the four,” I say. In darkness, we creep along the trees and shrubs that border the property. Halo with me, Cat and Niro together. We provide cover for one another as we move in pairs. Dim lights glow, and the occasional flicker suggests there’s a TV playing somewhere inside.

I let memories of seeing Avery and Vi crouched behind their car, terror in both their eyes, flow through me. Me, realizing the little girl was my daughter. Her, looking up at me with an uncertain smile that turned to unflinching terror as bullets and flames peppered around her.

They could have taken her from me before I even got the chance to hug her, to tell her I love her. Anger winds its way through me. It’s present in the tightness of my jaw, the stiffness of my shoulders. Shaking myself out a little, I run towards the covered rear porch.

Three mismatched chairs sit on it with a bucket they obviously use for cigarette butts. The paint is chipped and weathered, and there’s a missing plank. Halo crawls up to the window and tentatively raises a camera scope so he can look into the room without being seen.