Chapter Forty-Nine
WE’D TORN HALF the damn town apart by the time the sun dragged itself over the rooftops, spillin’ light across streets that still stank of last night’s sins.
The asphalt was damp, trash still scattered from bar fights that went too late, but we searched it all.
No stone unturned. No alley left unchecked.
Strip clubs where the neon never died, burnin’ holes in the eyes of men who never saw daylight.
Motels where the sheets were filthier than the cash changin’ hands.
Dens and dives Leena once crawled through like vermin in stilettos.
We rode hard into every shadow she might’ve slithered into after she decided to play rat.
After leadin’ them to my family.
The truth had spread through the city like blood through water, quiet at first, then undeniable once fists loosened lips. It hadn’t just been Gabrial’s men stormin’ that house. No, they’d been walked right to it. Leena had opened the door for them.
Revenge—that was her poison. She hadn’t forgiven me for shovin’ her out, for refusin’ to keep her around when she started crossin’ lines.
She wanted the patch. She wanted me. I gave her nothin’.
I remembered her face when I told her to get the hell out—her lipstick smeared, her eyes sparkin’ hate she thought I didn’t see.
Instead of disappearin’ like she should’ve, she doubled back mean. Sold us out with a smile, one piece at a time, until everything I loved was dragged into the dark.
But she hadn’t vanished for good. Not yet. And as long as she was breathin’, she was the thread. She might not be holdin’ them, but she knew where they’d been taken. That made her more than a traitor. That made her the key.
“She’s not at her place,” Chain said, stormin’ into the war room, his voice sharp with frustration. “Neighbors say her car’s not been seen in two days. Mail’s stacked up at the box.”
“She ain’t dumb enough to go home,” Bolt muttered, stalkin’ the length of the room like a dog in a cage. His boots scuffed the floor, back and forth, his shoulders twitchin’ like he was itchin’ for a fight. “Not if she knows we’re comin’.”
“She knows,” I cut in, my voice grim, rough enough to scrape the walls. “Hell, look at that footage again. Her face was too calm. Too steady. She believes Gabrial will protect her from us.”
That silence pressed down heavy, like a chain drawn tight across all our throats.
Devil leaned forward over the table, his fingers tappin’ slow against the scarred wood. Each knock echoed in my skull like a countdown to detonation. “She knew our moves,” he said, his voice flat. “Our timing. Like she had the playbook in her damn hand.”
“She had help,” Mystic said, arms crossed, his eyes cuttin’ sharp. “This wasn’t just some jealous outburst. This was placed. Plotted.”
But my gut burned cold, certain.
“No. She didn’t plan shit. She was the bait. Gabrial set the table, and we sat down without blinkin’.”
Devil’s gaze snapped to mine, cutting as a blade. “But still, something in my gut says there’s a piece we’re missing.”
“I think so too,” Spinner spoke up, his voice gravelly. “They were waitin’ when you left. Doesn’t pass the sniff test.”
The silence that followed slammed harder.
Gearhead cursed under his breath, the kind of curse that tastes like blood and regret when you realize you’ve been playin’ by somebody else’s rules.
Phones lit up the table, glowin’ like fireflies. Fingers flew, numbers punched, calls made, contacts shaken down.
Chain called every one of Leena’s old hangouts—strippers, waitresses, a landlord down on Rivers Avenue who’d once covered her rent for a “favor.” Nothin’. Nobody had seen her in days.
Mystic leaned against the wall, phone to his ear, mutterin’ low to a contact on the docks. His jaw locked tighter with every word before he finally snapped it shut. “Containers checked. No sign.”
Bolt slammed his palm against the table after his third call. “Pawn shop says she sold off her jewelry last week. That’s it. No trail since.”
Gatsby hunched over his laptop, keys clickin’ fast, screens glowin’ with data. “Her last burner was killed before she left the city. She scrubbed her digital footprint cleaner than she ever could’ve done on her own.”
Gearhead cursed again, draggin’ a hand over his face. “Which means Gabrial’s people covered her exit. She’s got protection.”
Every lead crumbled too fast.
Too clean.
Too damn calculated.
“Gabrial must’ve helped her leave the city,” I said, the words bitter as bile. “And we know he didn’t take them back to his mansion.”
Devil nodded slow, his jaw tight. “Yeah. Gabrial wouldn’t take ’em home. Too visible. Too many eyes.”
“He’s hidin’ them,” I growled, slammin’ my fist against the table hard enough to make the maps jump. “Somewhere buried. Somewhere only he knows. And Leena may be the one person who can point us there.”
“And if she’s vanished,” Bolt muttered, “we can’t use her to track him.”
I turned toward the wall board. Maps, pins, strings crisscrossin’ like veins stretched thin. Routes, names, connections we’d mapped over years—all of it suddenly lookin’ smaller, weaker, like the world was closin’ in around us.
“We stop chasin’ shadows,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Kickstand is sendin’ me everything he has on Gabrial Lopez and his cult,” Gatsby said, eyes never leavin’ the screen. “The files are downloadin’ as we sit here.”
“My gut says she’s at that fire cult’s compound,” I said. “We need its location.”
Devil pushed back from the table, his chair scrapin’ across the floor, his eyes hard, final. “Then we’ll bring the flame to his front door.”
And for the first time since I stood in that empty house, starin’ at that footage, my chest hollow and my hands empty…
I let that helpless feelin’ leave my body and replaced it with pure rage.
***
THE WAR ROOM smelled like leather, coffee gone bitter, and smoke that never quite cleared. The same Map covered the far wall, pins and strings stretchin’ across counties and states, but this wasn’t about streets and corners anymore. This was about roots. Gabrial’s roots.
Gatsby sat hunched over his laptop, screens glowin’ green and blue across his face, fingers movin’ so fast the keys sounded like rain hittin’ tin.
Kickstand’s files had come through in pieces—folders stacked with grainy photos, redacted reports, and handwritten notes that looked like they’d been smuggled out one page at a time.
“Lopez didn’t just wake up one day and play cartel,” Gatsby muttered, eyes narrowed at the screen. “He built himself outta somethin’ darker.”
“He’s been at this a long time,” Mystic said, leanin’ back in his chair with his arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.
My stomach clenched at the name. Flame. Fire. Sacrifice. All of it twisted in my head, pieces clickin’ into place with every word Gatsby read.
“Founded in the early eighties,” Gatsby went on, scrollin’ through a scanned article. “Started small. Grew fast. Preachin’ about purity through fire. Burnin’ the weak to strengthen the strong. Shit like that.”
Devil leaned in over the table, his face carved in stone. “And Lopez?”
Gatsby pulled up another file, a photo of a man—eyes dead, jaw tight, a book in one hand with a flame etched on the cover. “Second-generation member. His father the prophet before him. When the old man died, Gabrial stepped in. Young, hungry, already ruthless.”
“Explains the discipline,” Chain muttered. He was sprawled against the wall, but his fists were tight, knuckles white. “His people move like soldiers.”
“Explains the loyalty,” Spinner added, his face troubled. “Cult loyalty cuts deeper than cash. Deeper than fear.”
I stared at the photo, my jaw grindin’. A man raised in fire, preachin’ it like gospel, hidin’ behind cartel muscle to keep his pulpit standin’.
Gatsby flipped to another file, a topographical map with red markings. “That’s the thing. Officially? No compound exists, supposable burned down in the nineties after the government started sniffing around.”
“Unofficially?” Devil pressed.
Gatsby hesitated, then tapped the screen. “Rumors. Some say the fire was staged. That a second compound existed. A fallback site. Same doctrine, same symbol. Hidden deep.”
The room went still.
“Where?” I asked, my voice more of a demand than a question.
“Somewhere rural. Carolina backwoods? Maybe mountains? Kickstand’s files say Lopez’s members are devoted. They move in silence. No records, no paper trail. Just whispers.”
Mystic exhaled slow, saying, “If he’s hidin’ them, that’s where they’ll be. A place no one else dares to walk.”
I turned toward the board, fists tight at my sides. The maps looked different now, bigger, more dangerous. This wasn’t just territory. This was scripture to a madman.
“He’s not hidin’ them in some safe house,” I said. “He’s hidin’ them on holy ground.”
Devil gave a slow nod, his voice dark and certain. “Then we drag him out of his church. And we burn it down.”
“Let’s get busy followin’ up these leads,” I said, grabbing my keys off the table.
“One more thing,” Devil said, looking around the room. “Nothing we said here today touches another ear outside this room.”
We all nodded our agreement. Walls have ears even in our own clubhouse.