Chapter 29
The night air hit like a slap of ice. Just past two in the morning, the town was dead quiet – no tourists, no lights, nothing but mist rolling low over the hedges, swallowing the lane like a soft white shroud. Perfect hunting weather.
Pres moved first, a shadow cutting fast across the yard. He didn’t take his bike. Instead, he climbed into the big dark van parked by the shed. Bear and Shadow were already up front, sitting stone-cold, hands resting on heavy wrenches and thick plastic ties.
“I’m not riding in the van,” I called over.
“Cut through the churchyard instead,” Pres called back through the open window, voice low. “Come up the lane from the back way. Block ‘em in if they try to bolt.”
He met my eye, grey steel glinting under his cap. Gave one sharp nod. “Don’t kill ‘em yet. Not till we find out how many more of these rich pricks are waiting out there.”
“He’ll be breathing, Pres,” I muttered. “Barely.”
I turned and melted straight back into the dark. My boots were worn soft, made no sound on the old stone path. I cut through the graves, breath coming slow and steady, that cold sharp part of me fully awake now, humming deep in my bones.
Cable ties. Duct tape. Crowbars. The faces of those suits kept flashing behind my eyes. They thought she was just some silly runaway hiding out in a small town. Had no clue she’d walked straight into the Iron Angels’ den, or that the beast guarding her door was coming for them.
Minutes later I was crouched low behind the hedge opposite her garden right next to the Mercedes.
Hacker had everything wired perfect. The silver Merc sat idling, exhaust puffing white into the cold dark.
The P.I. was up front, head tilted down, face lit blue by his phone, looking smug and sure of himself.
Then a sharp crack cut through the quiet – wood splitting.
The men from the van down the road, were prying open her kitchen window.
The second that splintering sound hit the air, the lane exploded.
“GET OUT AND DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE!” Swift roared from the laurels.
Pres’s van came tearing round the corner, bright headlights flaring on full beam, blinding them, boxing the Merc right in.
The P.I. scrambled, phone flying out his hand, slamming into reverse. Tires screamed and spat gravel.
He never made it three feet.
I burst over the hedge like a storm made of leather and rage.
Landed straight on the hood of his car. Metal crunched under my weight, windscreen spider-webbing right in front of his face.
Before he could even blink I had his door ripped open, my other hand fisted in his coat collar dragging him out onto the road.
“OUT THE CAR YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” I bellowed, voice raw and wild. I slammed him down hard on the tarmac, planted my boot firm in his chest. He wheezed, staring up at me wide and terrified, eyes locking straight onto the patch stitched to my cut. He went still. Knew exactly who I was.
Down by the kitchen window it was already over.
Bear, Gears, Swift and Shadow had the five goons halfway through the frame before they even knew what hit ‘em.
No fancy moves, no messing around – just picked ‘em up one by one and slammed ‘em face first into the wall, then dragged ‘em out and zip-tied their wrists tight behind their backs.
Only the smallest one tried to run, and Tiny caught him easy like he was carrying nothing more than a sack of rubbish.
Pres walked slow down the lane, boots crunching deliberate on the gravel, until he stood right over the P.I. pinned under my boot.
“Well, well,” he rumbled, cold as the night air. He bent to pick up the walkie-talkie dropped in the grass, tossed it out into the ditch. “Looks like your little crew ran straight into a brick wall, mate.”
“W-who are you?” the P.I. gasped, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. “Do you have any idea who you’re hiding? The Sterling family will burn this whole place down to get her back!”
A low dangerous laugh rumbled out of me. I leaned more of my weight onto his chest, enjoying the terrified little gasp he let out.
“Let ‘em try,” I growled down at him. “We like a fire. But you won’t be around to see it.”
“Tie ‘em up,” Pres ordered sharp, turning back to the others. “Get ‘em loaded into the back. Streets are quiet right now, but I don’t want any of these pricks seen round here come morning. Shadow, grab the Merc keys and park it somewhere out the way. Gears, move the van. We’re heading downstairs.”
“Got it, Pres,” Bear grunted, yanking a hood down over the first guy’s head.
Within minutes the lane was dead again. Glass swept away, tracks covered, all six men gone. The heavy van doors slammed shut, locking them into dark silence.
The ride back to the club was quiet. I sat up front, knuckles scraped raw, already thinking about what came next.
We pulled into the yard, skipped the main gates, and backed right down the ramp leading under the building.
The air down there smelled of damp earth, old motor oil, and thick dust. The kind of place the club kept locked up tight, with nothing but heavy bolted doors and plain wooden chairs screwed right to the floor.
“Welcome to our little party room,” I muttered as we rolled further into the dark.