Chapter Thirty
The ringtone filled the cab, pausing an Aerosmith ballad on Rags’s Bluetooth, as Hawk’s name echoed. Rags hit the phone icon on the steering wheel.
“Hey,” Rags said.
“You driving?” Hawks asked.
“Yeah. It’s brutal out here. What’s up?” Rags bumped up the windshield wipers a notch.
“I got the list. It’s several pages. I looked through it, but the names don’t mean anything to me. Where are you?”
“Kiggin,” Rags replied.
Hawk whistled low. “You’re pretty far out. I’ll go ahead and send the PDF to your email. See if anything stands out.”
“Shit,” Rags muttered as the rear wheels broke traction, the snowplow fishtailing sideways.
“You good?” Hawk asked, his voice sharpening.
“Yeah. Just hit a patch of black ice.”
“Take it easy, bro. I sent the list. Lemme know if you need anything else.”
“I will. Thanks.”
The line disconnected.
Rags pulled the plow onto the shoulder, opened the email, and started scrolling through the names. Most belonged to women, and the few men listed didn’t ring any bells. He scanned the list again.
Then he froze.
One of the name’s belonged to a woman, but the last name punched him in the gut. Maybe it’s a coincidence. His eyes locked on the screen. But every instinct he had screamed otherwise.
Rags jabbed the voice command button on the steering wheel with his thumb. “Call Casey.” The ringing echoed through the speakers, loud and tinny, as the headlights caught the swirling snow in a frenzied dance.
No answer. Ice slid through his veins. He hit redial. The call went straight to voicemail. Again.
“Fuck!” His fist slammed into the steering wheel. Why the hell wasn’t she picking up? Maybe her phone is in another room, or buried in her briefcase, or—
No. Rags hit the call button again.
“Yo, what’s up?” Throttle’s voice filled the cab.
“I’m in Kiggin. Something’s not right with Casey. Where are you?”
“I’m in Rifle.”
“Fuck. You’re farther away than I am. What about Tank and Puck?”
“They’re not in the area either. What’s going on?”
“I think my woman’s in trouble. I gotta get over there. Shit.”
“Go. Now. I’ll take care of Kiggin. Just haul ass as best you can with a snowplow.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“Lemme know if you need me to call some of the brothers. They’re closer.”
“I thought about it, but the snow’s too deep. I got a better shot at getting there faster with the plow. I gotta go.”
Rags tried Casey’s number again. Nothing. Fear hardened into a thread of cold panic weaving up his spine.
He grabbed the joystick on the console and yanked it back, lifting the steel blade off the asphalt before flooring the gas. The engine roared as the plow lunged forward, chewing through the drifts and charging into the blinding white. “Hang on, Case,” he growled into the empty cab. “I’m coming.”