30. Tank
Tank
Imade it as far as the driveway before I knew I wasn't going inside.
Kade sent me home because I've been awake for two days, which means I'm no good to anyone.
And he's right. He usually is about that kind of thing, which is why none of us have ever really challenged his role as leader of the little psychopath circus we've got going on.
But I've been sitting outside the hospital instead of at home, watching the light in Ellie's mom's room as if it might change something.
She's still in a coma, and probably will be for the foreseeable future.
But making sure no one sketchy comes in or out is the only thing I can do for Ellie right now, useless as it is. And I can't handle doing nothing.
Then I feel it. Just… a feeling.
I don't have a word for it, never have. Just the old thing in the back of my skull that knows when one of mine is in trouble before my head catches up. It's been humming low for the last few minutes.
Now it's screaming.
I pull out my phone and dial Kade's number since I know the others will be home with Ellie. No threat there. But Kade is tailing Todd and there's always a non-zero chance Kade is going to do something stupid when he's on his own.
Same chance of me doing the same damn thing, which is probably why he sent me home to begin with.
He doesn't answer and that weird fucking feeling digging into my skull goes into overdrive.
I text Cyrus next.
TANK
Where's Kade?
The dots come fast because Cyrus never fucking sleeps.
CYRUS
Tailing Todd north. Why?
TANK
Bad feeling. Check his tracker.
He doesn't take long to answer, but it feels too long anyway.
CYRUS
His GPS stopped. 4 min ago. Hard stop.
I'm already kicking the bike back to life.
TANK
Coordinates?
He sends them immediately.
CYRUS
Tank, wait.
The message follows a second after the coordinates, but I've already got the pin pulled up and it's north past the rail yard, on the ragged edge of Southside's back forty.
There's no wait left in me.
The engine catches with a violent snarl.
Cy's text keeps replaying in my head as I ride. A hard stop is a wall, or another car, or the dirt. All the above mean Kade needs fucking help.
The streets are a blur. I take the corners too hard, and the cars get the fuck out of my way, because a thing my size moving this fast on a motorcycle comes across as a problem nobody wants any part of.
I smell it before I see it. Scorched rubber has a distinctive odor I've become so well acquainted with that I wake up smelling it in my dreams sometimes. It never means anything good.
The road bends, and there it is.
The sedan. The beige beater Kade takes out when he wants to disappear. It's crumpled down the driver's side so badly it looks like a giant fist closed around it.
And it's not even on the road. It's been dragged up onto the gravel shoulder, half into the weeds, with two long gouges raked through the dirt behind it where someone clearly hauled it out of sight.
You don't move a wreck off the road and leave it to help the man inside.
You move it so nobody stops.
My heart punches through my chest and I drop the bike before I've made the active choice to move at all. I'm across the gravel before it can land in the dirt.
Kade.
I go down on my knees at the caved door and look in.
There's glass everywhere. And blood, so much of it, painting the wheel and the windshield. The airbag hangs deflated and the seatbelt has been cut. It's a clean, diagonal slice, probably made with a switchblade if not a cutter.
And the bloody seat is empty.
I've held throats while the pulse slowed to nothing, so I know exactly how much blood is in a human body and how much it can afford to lose. This is enough to scare the hell out of me, but not quite enough to bury a stubborn motherfucker like Kade.
A glint of something from the footwell catches my eye. Kade's lighter. I snatch it up and stare for a few seconds before dragging myself out of the wreckage. My heart is still pounding in my ears, but I make myself focus on the scene, looking for any signs that might point me to him.
Fresh tracks peel east. Wide tires moving toward the warehouses, and nothing good.
Deep into Southside territory.
I get the phone back out. My hands shake so bad, I have to type the message out twice.
TANK
Car wrecked. Dragged off road. Kade is gone. Belt cut, lots of blood. Tracks east into Southside territory. Going after him.
CYRUS
NO.
He calls, but I ignore it, walking back toward my bike.
CYRUS
Tank STOP. You go in alone and blind, you're a dead man, and then I'm pulling two of you out of the river.
TANK
They took him. I'm not leaving him.
CYRUS
They TOOK him. Past tense. No body. You don't cut a belt for a corpse. They took him alive, which means they want something, which means we have time. I'll find him and we'll all go. You go in there alone, you're both fucked. You want me to have to explain that to her?
I clench my scarred jaw, the angry ruined tissue lighting up as if it's still fresh even after all these years. Using Ellie is a cheap shot but he's right. I know he's fucking right, but Kade is my brother.
They have my fucking brother and I can't just do nothing.
CYRUS
Come home. We'll get him back, but we have to do it smart. You know this.
I do.
That's the worst fucking part, and knowing he's right doesn't make me hate it any less.
There are sirens in the distance, far off but getting closer. A minute from now this scene will be crawling with cops, and a masked giant kneeling in the blood is not how anyone wants the night to end.
Least of all Ellie, whose mother is already in a hospital bed tonight and she doesn't need to worry about losing anyone else.
I press my hand flat to the bloody roof, as if Kade can feel it somehow. Like he'd know it was me if he could.
Hang on, brother. I'm coming. We're coming. Just hang the fuck on.
I haul my bike up out of the gravel, turn it away from Southside, and I do the hardest thing I can.
I ride home.