Chapter Twenty-Four #2
***Bones***
“It’s been an hour,” Tank grunts, arms crossed tight. “They should be coming out soon.”
I glance toward the doors but say nothing.
He shifts in his chair, tension rolling off him like heat from pavement.
“You know,” I mutter, “as much as Sunny shouldn’t be sticking her nose in your relationship with Abby… she’s not wrong.”
Tank groans. “Fuck, man. Not you too. She’s Spike’s sister. A club Princess.”
“So?” I raise a brow. “Did Spike give his blessing, or not?”
“It’s not that simple,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Abby went through hell when Los Fantasmas took her. Shit she won’t even talk about. Not to Riley. Not to Spike. Not even to her therapist half the time. She’s fragile, Bones. One wrong move, and I push her straight off the edge.”
I study him for a second, then shrug. “Maybe a little push is what she needs . She’s not made of glass, Tank. She’s still standing, isn’t she?”
His jaw tightens.
“She’s ready for you,” I add. “Has been. You’re the one holding back.”
“Just drop it, man.”
I drop it.
For now.
Tank’s got his reasons. Doesn’t mean they’re good ones. And if he feels even half of what I feel for Sunny, then he’s stronger than I’ll ever be.
Because I couldn’t stay away from that woman if I tried.
Did try.
Failed miserably.
And I’d do it again.
Because when you find someone like Sunny?
You hold on.
Even if it kills you.
Another ten minutes go by, and I’m starting to get antsy.
“Last time I brought her here, it didn’t take this long,” I mutter, glancing at the men guarding the two separate entrances. “You two, head outside and secure the vehicle.”
Nodding, the two Prospects leave to do their task.
“She’s never more than five minutes past the hour,” Tank adds.
I push to my feet and stride over to the reception desk.
“Can I help you, sir?” the man behind the counter asks politely.
“I need you to take me to the room where Abigail Turner is,” I demand.
He checks the screen in front of him. “It looks like Ms. Turner is currently in a session. They should be out any moment.”
“Just do me a solid and check on them.”
He hesitates.
“Now,” I growl, the word low and sharp.
I turn back to Tank knowing the receptionist will do as he’s told. “My gut’s telling me something’s off.”
He moves to stand beside me without a word.
A few tense minutes pass before the man returns, pale and visibly shaken. “She’s…she’s in there. The doctor’s alive, but unconscious… and there’s no one else in the room.”
Tank and I don’t wait for more. We bolt.
***
“Are there cameras?” Spike asks, his voice cold and clipped.
“No, sir,” the young man answers quickly. “We don’t allow cameras inside the counselor’s office. But there are some in the hallways and around the building.”
Foster scoffs. “That’s a bit irresponsible, don’t you think? What’s stopping a doctor from getting handsy or crossing a line with a patient?”
“It’s for the client’s privacy,” the kid insists.
“Then use cameras with no audio,” Foster snaps. “Angle them so the clients have their backs to the lens. No lip-reading…no eavesdropping. It’s not that hard. How stupid can a person be?”
“Dr. Mikah always records her sessions,” another receptionist speaks up from behind the desk. “But... she hadn’t started recording yet, which likely means the session hadn’t officially begun.”
“Which means we sat here for over a fucking hour, twiddling our thumbs, while our women were taken from right under our damn noses,” I growl.
“Unfortunately, we have to bring the law into this,” Spike says, his voice grim. “The doctor was knocked out. That’s not something we can cover up.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, gentlemen,” a new voice interrupts.
We all turn as Dr. Mikah walks into her office…right where we’re tearing the place apart looking for fucking clues.
“You don’t want us to call the cops?” Foster asks, skeptical.
“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t.”
She holds out a flash drive. “Here. Footage from the past twenty-four hours. There’s no camera inside this room, but there is one on the back patio. That’s where they came from.”
She exhales shakily, guilt written all over her face. “I wish I could tell you more. We hadn’t even sat down yet. They stormed in… I was out cold before they even touched your girls.”
Her eyes lower. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Hey,” Spike says gently. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“This is going to set Abigail back,” she murmurs. “She’s come so far… and now? This could throw her right back into hiding in closets again.”
“She’ll be fine,” Spike replies, voice hardening with resolve. “I’ll have it no other way.”
He studies her face. “You sure you don’t want us to take you to the hospital? Don’t you have to report something like this?”
“Technically, yes,” she admits. “But I’m a privately owned practice. I don’t have to report a damn thing. And I’m fine. Just a little tired.”
I step out onto the patio and look around. The landscape stretches for miles…flat, open, and empty, with only a few scattered buildings dotting the horizon. Getting into this place would’ve been a damn cakewalk.
Why the fuck didn’t we check this before Abby’s first appointment?
“You’re not losing it,” Tank says from behind me.
He’s right. I’m not. In fact, I’m calmer than I’ve ever been. It’s not that I’m not worried. I’m scared out of my fucking mind that something’s happening to Sunny. But the rage simmering beneath my skin is holding everything else back. It anchors me. Sharpens me.
I’m not breaking down.
I’m ready to kill.
My hands twitch with the need for my blades…and a victim.
“We’re going to get them back,” Tank says when I don’t respond. “Maverick, who apparently has men, is canvasing the area now.”
“Fucking bastard,” Spike growls from inside the office.
“What is it?” Tank asks as we move back in.
“Look.” Spike points to Foster’s laptop.
Onscreen, a grainy image plays. Three men in black hooded masks slip in through the patio door. Not even a full minute later, they walk out. Two of them carrying Sunny and Abby like sacks of laundry, both limp and unconscious.
My hands curl into fists so tight, my knuckles pop. But I stay calm. Focused.
“It doesn’t really show us anything,” Knuckles says.
“Wait for it,” Foster mutters, eyes glued to the screen.
Seconds later, he freezes the footage and zooms in.
My blood runs cold.
The sleeve of the man carrying Abby slips back just enough to reveal the ink burned into his wrist: a skull, half-hidden behind tendrils of smoke. Simple, dark, and unmistakable.
The mark of Los Fantasmas.
“They’re dead,” I whisper, fury knotting in my chest.
Spike doesn’t waste time. As soon as Foster confirms the timestamp on the footage, he pulls out his phone and steps toward the window, back to the rest of us.
He hits a number and waits.
“Muerte,” he says flatly when the line picks up. “Might want to train your men a little better.”
A pause.
“They didn’t do a great job hiding their brand. One of them flashed your ghost skull clear as fucking day while carrying off our fucking women.”
Another pause.
Then Muerte’s voice comes through, calm and smooth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Shadow.”
Spike chuckles darkly, but there’s no humor in it. “Don’t play dumb, Ghost. If you planned to take our women, why come to our compound last week and make the deal we made?”
There’s silence for half a beat. Then Muerte laughs. A low, amused sound, like he’s genuinely entertained.
“Well,” he says, “that’s a very good question, isn’t it.”
And just like that…
Click.
The line goes dead.
Spike lowers the phone slowly, jaw tight, muscles bunched. “That son of a bitch is playing games.”
No one speaks. The air in the room feels heavier now, like even the silence is waiting for blood.
Foster finally mutters, “He’s taunting us.”
“Let him,” I say, voice low. “Ghosts don’t scare me.”
Tank glances over, brow furrowed. “No?”
I shake my head. “Ghosts haunt. People feel them. They watch, they linger. You know they’re there even if you don’t see them.”
I look up, voice lowering. “But shadows? Shadows don’t haunt. They don’t announce themselves. They follow you…silent, unnoticed…until you step right into them.”
My fingers twitch, aching for steel.
“And then they strike. Quick. Precise. Some shoot… others carve. Shadows don’t want you afraid. They want you opened .”
I meet Spike’s eyes. “Let the ghosts float around, rattling chains. We’ll be waiting in the dark…with blades.”
“Fucking right,” Skip says. “I fucking love this poetic bastard.”