Chapter 2
Tank
I know a bad room the second I walk into it.
Velvet Reign is a bad room dressed up pretty.
Gold light.
Red velvet.
Too much money.
Too many men pretending this place is clean.
I stand near the edge of the room in a black suit that pulls wrong across my shoulders and keep my face blank while I watch the floor. That is why I am here. Count heads. Clock the exits. Track security. Figure out who moves first if this place goes loud.
Our treasurer, Sin, is here too. A couple of Damned Saints prospects are working the room.
I handle security for the Saints. It is what I do best.
I wait.
I decide where violence needs to land when it is time.
The first girl comes out in a silky chemise, looking too damn angelic for a room like this.
Bare feet.
Face blank.
And Christ.
Every man in the room looks at her like she is something to buy.
That lands wrong in me fast.
She is all soft curves and pale skin, chestnut-brown hair loose around her shoulders like somebody touched it without permission, green eyes gone distant and glassy under the lights.
Too damn pretty for a place like this. Too sweet-looking for the way these bastards are staring at her.
The chemise clings to her like a second skin.
Something hard and possessive turns over in my gut.
The room sees merchandise.
I see a woman who should not be standing under those lights for any man here.
The man with the microphone smiles down at his clipboard like he is selling a bottle of whiskey instead of a human being. The men in the room smile with him. Some lean forward. Some lift their paddles. Some just watch like this is what their money is for.
I do not look at them.
I look at her.
Too young.
Too pretty.
And drugged.
I know that on sight.
The slow way she moves. The way she stands where they put her. The way her face looks empty while her body gives her away in little tells. Toes curling against the stage. Shoulders too tight. Hands hanging still because they have stopped feeling like hers.
Her eyes stay far away.
Until they do not.
For one second, she looks at me.
Straight at me.
The whole room drops away.
For one second, the blankness breaks. She looks wrecked. Dazed. Scared out of her mind. But under all of it, there is something else in her eyes. Something raw enough to cut. Like she knows exactly what that room is and exactly what is about to happen to her and nobody in it plans to help.
That look hits me low and hard.
I go still inside.
The kind of still that comes right before something breaks.
I have seen a lot of fear in my life.
I have seen men bleeding out in sand and mud. Seen women pulled from places no one should have to survive. Seen the look that comes over a person when the world has made it plain they are on their own.
I know that look.
I also know exactly what it is to be treated like somebody else’s problem.
The next bid comes in and the room swallows the moment whole.
But it is too late.
I have seen her.
And she has seen me.
The bidding keeps climbing.
Higher.
Then higher again.
The men around me smile into their drinks. One laughs under his breath like this is all good fun.
My jaw locks.
I do not move.
Violence makes me calmer.
Always has.
The second things turn ugly enough, the noise in my head gets smaller. Cleaner. It narrows down to what needs to be broken and how fast I can get it done.
But tonight is supposed to be reconnaissance.
We came in to build a plan.
We came in to map the place, track the flow, figure out how deep Salazar Huntington’s filth runs before we tear the whole thing out by the roots.
I know that.
I know it the same way I know I am one bad second away from putting my fist through the auctioneer’s teeth.
The girl does not look at me again.
She goes blank on the outside. Marble-still. But I know better now. I know what is under it.
The man with the microphone touches his earpiece, listens, then smiles wider.
“Sold,” he says. “Via phone to one of our long-time clients.”
The men clap.
I do not.
Two guards step in and take her off the stage.
My hands curl once at my sides.
That should be it.
A bad thing logged.
A face remembered.
A wrong added to the pile.
Instead, I keep seeing her eyes.
The way they hit mine for one second and made something ugly wake up in me.
The room moves on to the next girl.
I do not.
I watch the side exit where they took her. Track the two guards. One handler. Fast transfer. Clean enough to look routine if you do not know what you are seeing.
I know exactly what I am seeing.
And I know I am not letting her disappear into the dark without a trail.
I shift, ease back from the edge of the room, and cut through the side corridor like I belong there, shoulders loose, face bored, every step measured. The music dulls behind the walls. Perfume gives way to bleach and concrete and cold air slipping in from the service exit ahead.
Voices carry from outside.
A muttered curse.
A door shoving open.
A man says, “Watch her head.”
I step into shadow just beyond the exit and catch the whole thing.
The angelic girl in the chemise.
Two guards.
A dark van with the side door open.
One SUV in front.
One behind.
She moves slow when they guide her to the van. Too slow. Drugged enough that the first step up does not land right. One guard gets impatient and shoves her harder than he needs to.
My breathing evens out.
That is the shift.
The cold settling in.
The calm.
Better.
Useful.
I mark everything.
Van.
Two escort vehicles.
Dirty plates.
Three men I can see. Maybe more inside.
No sign of Salazar.
The side door slams shut.
The engines roll.
I move for my bike.
The front SUV pulls first. The van follows. Another SUV drops in behind it.
I bring my bike to life and slide in after them at a distance.
The mountain road curves dark through the pines, slick with cold, headlights flashing over wet gravel and black trunks.
When they clear the lot and hit the back road, I pull out my phone and hit Sin.
He picks up.
“You clear?” I ask.
“Working on it,” Sin says.
I keep my eyes on the van.
“Got eyes on the van,” I say. “Two vehicles with it. Heading toward Black Pines.”
“Copy. Stay on it.”
A pause.
“You good?” I ask.
“I’m riding with one,” he says.
Some of the tightness in my chest eases.
“Bring her back safely.”
“I will.”
The line cuts.
I keep moving.
The van stays boxed between the SUVs like whatever is inside matters.
She matters.
Too much already.
That should piss me off.
Instead, it settles in my chest like something inevitable.
I think about the second she looked at me.
About those green eyes finding mine in that room.
Something in me locked on and never let go.
That should have been nothing.
It wasn’t.
And now I am here, following her into the dark like there was never any other choice.
The road narrows.
I stay on the van.
The trees close in thicker there. Fewer lights. Fewer houses. More room to do ugly things where nobody hears.
The convoy slows at an old service cabin tucked deep in the trees, half hidden behind pine and scrub. One light burns over the side door. Another hangs crooked above a detached shed. The place looks dead except for the vehicles.
I kill my engine a good distance back and coast the rest into shadow.
Front SUV parks first.
Rear one swings wide.
The van settles in the middle.
Four men get out.
Then a fifth from the cabin.
Big bastard. Beard. Gun at his hip. The kind of man who thinks hurting people makes him important.
They open the van.
One of the guards drags her toward the door. She stumbles on the way down, knees almost buckling under her. He catches her by the upper arm hard enough to bruise and yanks her upright.
That’s enough.
I pull out my phone and hit Ghost, the club enforcer.
He answers on the first ring.
“Yeah.”
“Black Pines. Service cabin off the back road. Five outside. Maybe more in.”
A beat.
Then, “How close are you?”
I keep my eyes on her. One of the guards jerks her hard enough to make her stumble again.
“Close enough.”
Another beat.
“Wait for back-up.”
I look at the cabin door. At the bastard with his hand locked around her arm. At the way she can barely keep her feet under her.
“Can’t.”
Silence.
Then Ghost, flat and steady.
“Go.”
I end the call and pocket the phone.
No more talking.
No more waiting.
Just work.
I move through the trees without sound, keeping low, using the dark and the pines for cover. One man by the van. One at the cabin door. Two smoking near the front SUV, lazy because they think they own the night.
They do not.
The first one goes down quiet.
I come up behind the smoker nearest the trees, lock an arm around his throat, and drag him back into the dark. One hard twist. One wet crack. He drops before the cigarette hits the ground.
The second one hears just enough to turn.
My knife goes in under his ribs.
He folds.
Still quiet.
Still clean.
At the cabin door, one of the guards shoves her inside.
I move faster.
The third man sees me too late.
My fist caves his nose before he gets his gun clear. I slam him into the siding and put him down with the butt of his own weapon.
The fourth one reaches for the van.
I shoot him in the leg first.
He goes down screaming.
Too loud now.
Fine.
The calm stays.
That is the thing about me.
Once violence starts, I know exactly who I am.
The bearded bastard at the cabin door yanks his gun and gets half a step into the yard before I put one round through his shoulder and another into his throat.
He drops.
Silence drops hard after gunfire.
Then the ringing.
Then my own breath.
The van idles.
The cabin light hums.
From inside, something crashes.
A small sound follows.
Her.
I’m at the door in two strides.
The room is dressed up nice.
Soft light. A chair. Bottled water on the table. Everything clean enough to pass for respectable.
Then I see the zip ties, and the whole place turns rotten.
She is backed into the corner, one hand braced against the wall like the floor will not hold still. Chestnut hair tangled around her face. Green eyes huge and glassy.
For half a second she just stares at me.
Then she flinches.
Of course she does.
I’ve got blood on my hands. A gun in one fist. Death still riding my shoulders.
I lower the weapon and set it on the table.
“Easy, angel.”
My voice comes out rougher than I want.
Her mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
She sways once.
I step closer, slow enough not to spook her.
“Remember me? You looked at me back there,” I say. “I’m getting you out.”
Her breath shudders.
She tries to answer and only manages a broken little sound.
That lands right in the center of my chest.
I shrug out of my suit jacket and hold it out.
“Put this on, angel.”
Her fingers shake when she reaches for it.
She almost misses one sleeve.
I help her without thinking, careful and slow, sliding the jacket over her shoulders and pulling it closed around her. The thing swallows her whole.
Good.
Better.
Covered.
Her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the floor.
She gasps and grabs a fistful of my shirt, weak but desperate.
“I know,” I murmur, one arm under her knees, the other braced across her back as I lift her. “I know.”
She feels too right in my arms.
Soft curves. Warm weight. Made to fit there, even shaking like she might come apart.
A fresh wave of violence rolls through me at the feel of her against my chest.
She presses her face into me like she cannot help it, like her body has made a choice before the rest of her catches up.
My jaw locks.
“I’ve got you, angel.”
Her grip tightens.
That’s enough.
I turn and carry her out into the cold night.
Nobody touches her again.