Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ender
The motel was a fucking dump.
Two stories. Beige paint that had given up a decade ago. Rust bleeding down the railings like the building itself was tired of holding itself together. The kind of place where the neon VACANCY sign always flickered, and the parking lot lights were just bright enough to make everything look worse.
A line of doors faced the lot, each one with a cheap number plaque and a deadbolt that probably hadn’t stopped a determined person in its whole life. The second-floor walkway ran along the front like a balcony of misery, with metal stairs on the side that clanged when you put weight on them.
There were a handful of cars scattered around, most of them looking like they’d been driven hard and loved by no one. A couple trucks. A dusty SUV. A minivan that looked like it had seen the inside of a fast-food bag more times than it had seen a vacuum.
And then there it was.
The blue four-door.
My bike idled low beneath me, the vibration crawling up through my thighs, through my spine, like it could shake the rage loose if I let it. Cole’s bike sat to my right. Wrecker’s to my left. Pipe behind us on his bike, and Junior in the black van.
I watched the motel office door open.
Cole walked out, his shoulders squared, and his expression set in that way it got when he’d already decided what was about to happen and nothing was going to stop it. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
He pointed without ceremony.
“That is their car,” he said, finger aimed at the blue four-door. “Receptionist said they checked in and paid for one night.”
My jaw tightened.
“One night,” Junior echoed, like he couldn’t decide if that was funny or infuriating.
“It’s a good fucking thing we came tonight,” Cole added.
I looked at Wrecker.
He met my eyes and nodded once.
If we’d waited, we would’ve missed them. If we’d listened to cautious planning one more day, those three would’ve been gone by sunrise. Another town. Another motel. Another set of lies. Another chance for them to disappear into that nomad mess they called a club.
We didn’t get a lot of shots in life.
But when we did, we didn’t waste them.
“They’re in room two-fourteen,” Cole continued.
Junior leaned forward a little, cracking his neck like he was about to go do something physical. “You get a key?”
Cole shook his head. “She said she could give me info, but she’d get fired for giving me the key.”
Junior’s mouth curved. “I got a fucking boot that’s gonna be the key once I kick the door in.”
Wrecker let out a short chuckle that didn’t carry any humor. “Then let’s fucking go. Maybe we can be home before the sun comes up.”
“That would be fucking nice,” Cole muttered.
I couldn’t stop staring at the blue car.
A stupid car.
A stupid choice.
Like they thought they could just roll into town and be normal for a night. Like they thought they could hide behind a motel door and the world would forget what they’d done.
I leaned slightly toward Wrecker, my voice low. “You sure you’re good with this?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I was thinking about it on the way up here. With them being nomads, no one’s gonna fucking notice if they go missing.
Yogi’s acting like his guys didn’t attack Star and Clove,” he continued.
“So if he hits us up asking questions, I can do the same thing. No clue, man.”
Cole snorted. Junior huffed a laugh.
Even Pipe’s mouth twitched.
It should’ve felt good, the kind of dark satisfaction the club ran on when justice was deserved.
But it didn’t.
Not fully.
Because this wasn’t just club business anymore. Not for me.
I could still hear Clove’s voice in my head.
Come home to me, Ender.
And I would.
But first, I needed these men to understand what they’d woken up.
We moved like a unit across the lot, the gravel crunching under our boots.
The air smelled like old cigarettes, hot asphalt, and fried food from somewhere nearby.
We reached the stairs.
Metal steps. Thin railing. A handprint of grime where a thousand people had grabbed it to drag themselves up.
Wrecker went first. I followed closely, with Cole behind me, and then Pipe and Junior bringing up the rear.
The stairs clanged under our weight.
Second floor.
The hallway, if you could call it that, was just a narrow outdoor walkway lined with doors and cheap plastic chairs. A couple broken ashtrays. A soda can tipped on its side with a dried brown stain beneath it.
Room numbers marched past: 210. 211. 212.
Two-fourteen sat near the end.
Perfect.
Wrecker held up a fist.
We fanned out without needing to be told. Junior took the front. Pipe to one side. Wrecker close behind Junior. Cole and I on the other side.
I could hear the TV inside.
Some late-night infomercial voice selling happiness for three easy payments.
I pictured the three men inside.
Laughing. Drinking. Maybe packing their bags. Maybe congratulating themselves on getting away.
My blood went cold.
Junior cracked his knuckles, rolled his head, then glanced back at us. “You ready?”
Nobody answered. We didn’t need to.
He leaned in and banged his fist against the door.
Right at the bottom.
Cole blinked. “Did you just knock at the bottom of the door?”
Junior nodded like this was a normal question with an obvious answer. “You think you need to raise your hand to knock? Makes the same noise no matter where you hit the door.”
Cole stared at him for a beat, then muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
A shuffle sounded inside.
A chain rattled.
“Who is it?” a voice called.
Junior didn’t miss a beat. “Pizza.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
The door swung open.
And Junior lunged like a damn missile.
He slammed the guy back inside in one violent, efficient motion, his forearm across the man’s chest and his other hand clamping over his mouth.
“Make a fucking noise,” Junior warned, voice low and lethal, “and you’re dead.”
Pipe slipped in immediately, Wrecker right behind him.
Cole and I followed, stepping over the threshold like we owned the room.
The smell hit me first.
Sweat. Cheap beer. Stale smoke. Old carpet that had absorbed every bad decision made on it for the last twenty years.
The room was lit by a single lamp on a wobbling end table. The TV blared in the corner, volume too loud. Two beds. A small, scratched dresser. A bathroom door cracked open.
One of the men was in the middle of standing, eyes wide, hands halfway raised like he didn’t know whether to fight or beg.
The other was closer to the second bed, already moving like he might go for something.
Pipe tackled him fast, driving him to the floor with a grunt, and pinned him before he could even make it three steps.
Wrecker grabbed the third and hauled him back by his shirt like a dog grabbing a rabbit.
The one Junior had shoved back struggled in Junior’s grip, but Junior didn’t budge.
“You wanna tell me why the old guys are doing everything?” Pipe grunted as he got his guy subdued with a knee in his back.
Cole and I shared a look.
“We didn’t know the plan,” Cole said dryly.
Wrecker chuckled, already reaching into his pocket. He pulled out zip ties, the black plastic loops catching the light.
He zip-tied his guy’s hands quickly, practiced, then tossed a handful to Junior and Pipe. “Zip ’em,” Wrecker said.
The guy tried to buck and twist, but Wrecker didn’t flinch. He just tightened the tie and shoved him toward the bed like he was nothing.
Pipe’s guy thrashed under him and tried to elbow him. Pipe leaned down close to his ear. “You keep moving like that, I’m gonna break something you’ll miss.”
The guy froze.
Junior’s guy tried to wrench away when Junior loosened his grip to tie him.
Cole stepped in like he’d been waiting for the excuse. He reared back and punched the man square in the face.
The sound cracked through the room.
The guy crumpled, his nose immediately bleeding, with his hands still trapped in the zip tie.
Cole straightened, rolling his shoulder like he’d just gotten out of bed. “How’s that for helping?” he asked Pipe.
Pipe nodded without looking up. “Helpful.”
My hands were clenched so tight my knuckles ached.
I didn’t move yet.
Not because I wasn’t ready.
Because I wanted to watch them realize.
They got them onto the bed. One, two, three, like a row of problems laid out for correction.
Wrecker grabbed the chair from the corner, cheap plastic, one leg slightly shorter than the others, and swung it around to sit facing them.
Pipe stood to Wrecker’s right, arms crossed.
Junior took the side, leaning against the wall like he had all night.
Cole and I stood opposite Pipe, flanking Wrecker like we were his shadows.
The TV still blared.
Wrecker grabbed the remote and clicked it off.
Silence dropped hard.
“Tell us your fucking names,” Junior said, “before you end up like Timmy.”
The guy on the left’s eyes widened so fast it was almost comical. “Rocket,” he blurted, voice shaky. He nodded toward the others. “Jonas in the middle. Dusty on the end.”
Wrecker smiled wider. “See? Was that so hard?”
“Fuck you,” Jonas rasped, blood thick on his lip.
“Fuck. You,” Wrecker repeated, mocking. “Know who I am?” he asked, his tone deadly.
Jonas spat right onto Wrecker’s boot.
Wrecker stared down at it like he was genuinely offended by the audacity.
Then he glanced at Pipe. “Why the hell do these assholes always gotta spit on me?”
Pipe shrugged like this was a mystery of the universe. “No clue. But I’m sure they’ll learn it’s bad manners by the time we’re done with them.”
“They’re gonna learn something,” Junior said, voice flat as stone.
“We don’t give a fuck who you are,” Dusty snapped.
Wrecker’s smile was slow and mean. “Well, that’s not very nice. But I give a fuck who you are.”
Jonas spat again.
Wrecker’s jaw tightened. Pipe’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.
Wrecker muttered something under his breath that sounded like stupid fuckers.
Junior pushed off the wall and moved in one quick step.
His fist slammed into Jonas’s face.