CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Standing outside a warehouse in Grand Bay, Alabama, I watch Benny and Bobby load what I think is the last body into their van.
My hands are still shaking.
Not from nerves or anything like that, but from exhaustion.
Eight bodies.
Each one had to be wrapped in heavy plastic because they were so severely mangled that they were unrecognizable as human remains.
Whoever dealt with them has some serious anger issues.
That’s not my problem, though.
I don’t ask questions about the what and why.
I don’t want to know.
“That the last one?” I call out, wiping my hands on a microfiber rag even though I’ve been wearing gloves this whole time.
Some habits die hard.
“Yeah,” Benny grunts, slamming the van doors shut.
Bobby turns to me, his face creased with concern. “You headed home?”
I shrug, the question hitting harder than it should.
Home.
Where the hell is that even at anymore?
I thought I’d found it.
Thought the small beach town with my biker and his amazing kids was going to be my home.
But I was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
Bobby’s face softens. “It’ll all work out how it’s supposed to.”
I’m not so sure, but I force a smile and nod anyway.
They don’t need to worry about me.
I always land on my feet. And this time won’t be any different.
“We’ll catch you on the flip side,” Benny says, climbing into the passenger seat and waving two fingers out the window.
I lift my hand in a half-hearted wave as they drive off.
“Now what?” I whisper to myself as the all too familiar sound of blinds banging against glass comes from behind me.
Turning around, I get a good look at Panda and groan. The blinds are stretched to the max around his rolly polly body.
“Seriously, dude? I just replaced those.”
Throwing my hands up in the air, I stomp towards the RV, but stop short when my phone starts ringing in my back pocket.
Two guesses who it is.
Glancing down at the screen, Mason’s name flashes across the screen.
“Nope.” I hit the button on the side and send his call to voicemail.
I can’t deal with his bossiness right now.
No sooner does it stop vibrating in my hand than it starts ringing again.
“Are you kidding me?” I hit the button again and send him to voicemail.
When it starts ringing for a third time, I’m ready to throw the damn thing into the nearest dumpster.
“This is verging on harassment,” I growl.
I can’t deal with his shit today. Seriously.
My heart feels like it’s broken into a million pieces, and I need some time to figure my shit out.
The ringing stops.
Then starts up again.
“Jesus Christ!” I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear. “Seriously, Mason? This is fucking crazy! Stop blowing up my damn phone. I’ll call you back when it’s convenient for me!”
There. I said it.
“Have you spoken with Tacoma?” His voice is cautious.
My chest constricts painfully at the mention of his name. “No. Why?”
“Cali—”
“We broke up,” I snap, hating how my voice cracks on the words. “So no, I haven’t spoken to him and I don’t want to talk about him.”
There’s a pause, then Mason’s voice drops. “Fuck. I’m sorry, sis, but this is important. I just spoke with him. His son is missing.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as all the oxygen stalls in my lungs.
This doesn’t make any sense. He’s missing? Jagger wouldn’t take off and worry his father. He’s a good kid.
“Cali?” Mason’s voice sounds far away.
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Who?” The word comes out barely a whisper. “Who took him?”
“The Sinners.”
“How do you know?”
“Tacoma.”
No. No, no, no.
Jagger.
Sweet Jagger, who’s already been through too much in his short sixteen years.
“We’re saddling up and heading out to help find the boy,” Mason continues. I hear him talking to someone in the background, then he comes back on the line. “They’ve tracked his phone. He’s in Spencer.”
The breath I’ve been holding whooshes out. “Spencer, Mississippi?”
“Yeah.”
My mind races, calculating the distance. “I’m less than half an hour from there.”
“Cali, no—”
“Don’t you dare tell me no!” I’m already running toward my RV, my boots pounding against the cracked asphalt. “I’m not going to wait around for something to happen to him. He’s just a kid, Mason! I’m the closest, and I’ll do what I have to do to get him back.”
“Cali, listen to me—”
“No, you listen!” I wrench open the door, and Panda scurries out of my way with an indignant chitter. “Jagger needs help, and I’m going to help him. End of discussion.”
“Goddammit, Cali—”
I hang up, tossing my phone onto the counter as I rush to the far wall.
My hands are shaking as I press the hidden button disguised as a light switch.
There’s a soft click, and the entire wall panel slides open, revealing my arsenal.
Guns of every make and model line the shelves—Glocks, Sigs, a couple of AR-15s, even a few grenades I picked up from a client who owed me a favor.
I start grabbing weapons and setting them on the table.
Two Glocks, my favorite Sig Sauer, extra magazines.
My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over as panic tries to claw its way up my throat.
“Fuck,” I whisper, grabbing my tactical backpack and stuffing it with ammunition. Boxes of 9mm, .45 caliber, magazines already loaded and ready.
I strap a scabbard knife to my right thigh, securing it tight.
Then I holster two guns in my thigh holsters, checking to make sure the safeties are on.
I stuff two more guns into the backpack along with the ammo.
Panda chatters at me from his perch on the back of the couch.
I pause long enough to give him a scratch behind his ears. “I’ll be back, buddy. I promise.”
Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I rush out of the RV and lock the door behind me. My fingers fumble with the keys as I hurry to the back and unlock the toy hauler.
The ramp lowers, and there’s my baby—my sparkly black and hot pink Kawasaki Ninja.
I throw my leg over the seat, fire up the engine, and zoom down the ramp without bothering to put it back up.
There’s no time.
Hold on, Jagger.
I’m on my way.
Twenty-seven minutes later, I pull over on the side of the highway in Spencer, Mississippi, with one thought in mind.
How the heck am I going to find him?
Spencer isn’t huge, but it’s not exactly tiny either.
I can’t just ride around hoping to find him so I can bring him home.
Suddenly, it hits me.
Saylor. The Life360 app.
That sweet baby girl had insisted on putting it on my phone, vowing with gusto that I needed it.
“So that if you ever get lost, Daddy can find you and bring you home.”
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and open the app.
Please let his location ping. Please, please, please.
The app loads, and I hold my breath.
Yes!
A circle with Jagger’s smirking face pops up on the screen, showing that he’s somewhere on the other side of town.
“You’re a genius, Saylor,” I whisper, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
I start my bike and head for the location, weaving through the afternoon traffic.
When I reach the area the app is pointing me to, my stomach sinks.
It’s some sort of warehouse district.
Nothing but abandoned buildings after abandoned buildings, their windows broken, graffiti covering the walls.
Definitely a good place to hide a kid if you don’t want any nosy neighbors knowing what you’re doing.
I follow the app, getting closer and closer to Jagger’s face on the screen.
Here.
Parking my bike in the alley behind a dumpster, I tuck it out of sight.
I’m close.
Climbing off, I adjust my backpack on my shoulders and hurry along the side of the brick building.
When I peek around the corner, I see three Sinners standing in front of what must be the entrance, smoking cigarettes and looking bored.
Bingo.
I’d bet anything that Jagger is inside there.
Stepping back, I bump into a hard chest.
My body stiffens for a split second before the smell of leather, Irish Spring, and something uniquely Tacoma wraps around me.
“Angel,” he growls, his arm going around my waist, pulling me back against him.
My eyes close, and I breathe him in.
God, I’ve missed him so much.
Snapping my eyes open, I shake my head. No. I can’t do this.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low in my ear.
Spinning around in his arms, there he is.
Behind him are Bane, Bash, Gator, Journey, and the rest of his brothers, too.
All of them armed to the teeth and looking ready for war.
“Cali!”
I narrow my eyes at him. “The same thing you are.”
Tacoma’s jaw clenches, and he moves me behind him, positioning himself between me and the corner as he peeks around.
“There are three of them.”
He turns back to his men, repeating what I just said and adding, “There are likely more inside.”
Journey steps around both of us to peek around the corner himself. “How are we going to get past them without them tipping whoever’s inside off?”
I give myself a once-over. Def Leppard t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, black leather pants, and my heeled Louboutin boots. Then I smell under my pits. Not fresh as a daisy, but desperate times and all that...
“Daddy,” I say, eyes flicking up to the heavens as I slip my backpack off my shoulders and hand it to Bane. “If you’re looking down from heaven.” I unstrap the guns on my thighs and give them to Tacoma. “Close your eyes.”
“Stay out of that—”
Too late.
Bane unzips my bag, and his eyes go as big and round as beach balls. “Holy shit.” He pulls out one of my grenades and shows it to Journey.
Tacoma’s lips turn down. “The fuck are you doing with that?”
Ignoring my man—ex-man, I remove the knives strapped to my thigh and bend down to slip them inside my boot.
“Cali!”
I snap my head up and narrow my eyes at Tacoma. “I’m doing what needs to be done!”
Grabbing hold of the hair tie holding my messy bun secured on top of my head, I unwind it, flip my head over, and shake my locks loose with my fingers. I flip my head back over, then reach under my shirt to adjust my boobs, pushing them up in my bra.
“I don’t fucking think so,” Tacoma growls, reaching for me.