3. 3 Thorne
3: Thorne
“Get off me, asshole.” I shove Ryder’s dead weight of a head off my shoulder, clawing my way out of the murky remnants of a nightmare, only to find him draped over me like a damn blanket. His face is a breath too close, limbs sprawled over the cramped truck backseat as if he owns the space. I push harder, sneering, “For fuck’s sake, Ryder. Personal space.”
He grunts in protest, stretching lazily, smirking in that irritating way of his, like he’s never met a problem he couldn’t charm or punch his way out of. “You have that?” he asks, winking as he rubs a thumb over his jaw. On any other day, he’d be groggy and foul-mouthed until he’d had his caffeine hit. But today, there’s a glint in his eye that says he’s wired on something else. Must be the thrill of being this close to Roseburg… to her.
Outside the window, the rain blurs the forest into a smear of gray and green, an endless road drenched in shadows. I dig my nails into the worn leather of my gloves, every muscle tensed, anticipation simmering hot under my skin.
We’re coming, Vic. Just a little longer, and you’ll be back where you belong, no matter who we have to burn to make it happen.
“Yo, how much longer?” Ryder’s patience finally snaps, and he taps Blaze’s seat with a groan, raking a hand through his hair. Blaze shoots him a look that could kill, his hand pressing against his gut, where the wound he refuses to treat right is making him grind his teeth. Blaze’s pain is a low, constant reminder of what we’d all been too slow to prevent. And that failure sits with us, festering.
“Twenty minutes,” Blaze growls, eyes barely flicking to the rearview mirror. His voice is low, sandpaper rough as he keeps his focus on the road, jaw clenched so tight it looks like he could snap it with a single wrong word. The guilt thrums beneath his skin, a raw, unyielding thing that has him gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands, pushing through pain and fatigue because slowing down isn’t an option. Not now.
We’ve been running on fumes since we crossed state lines, switching seats and rotating shifts to keep moving. No stops. We’re loaded up with enough weaponry in the truck bed to start a war. A cop pulling us over right now would be the least of our problems, but that isn’t stopping Blaze from keeping a keen eye on every flicker of headlights in the distance, every car that lingers behind us a little too long.
“You think Diablo will actually help us?” Ryder mutters, low enough that it’s almost swallowed by the rumble of the engine and the rain hammering down on the roof. “Can’t say I trust him not to screw us over the first chance he gets.”
Blaze’s fingers drum on the wheel, his silence louder than any answer. The contact he called in—an ex-member from our old Iron Triad days—said Diablo would be willing to meet, willing to share intel on Nico in exchange for a favor. It’s the kind of deal that reeks of desperation on our part and greed on his. But what choice do we have? Every second lost is a second she’s still gone.
A sharp left takes us onto a gravel road, each jolt reverberating through my bones, the unease gnawing deeper. A property flanked by tall pines looms into view, isolation stretching in every direction. The driveway opens up to a garage wide enough for several cars, where Paulo, our contact, waits with his arms crossed, face shadowed under the weak yellow glow of a light. He’s got the same look he did back when he rode with us—a dangerous edge, with enough scars to show he’d earned his place. Now, he’s here, standing in a different gang’s territory, offering us a favor.
“Good to have you back, man.” Paulo’s grin is tight, strained, his gaze flickering between us, taking in the tension rolling off us in waves. He claps my shoulder, Blaze’s, and Ryder’s in turn—a familiar acknowledgment of what once bound us.
Blaze taps the truck bed, his voice a rough murmur, “Where’s our stash going?”
Paulo motions to a hidden room behind a rolling metal shelf, his movements brisk. “In here. My guys can unload it. Diablo will be here soon.” There’s a strange weight in his tone, a subtle warning in the way his gaze lingers on Blaze.
Ryder, barely suppressing his restlessness, slaps Paulo on the back with a grin that hardly hides the coiled tension. “Lead the way, my friend.”
We file into the house, winding through dimly lit hallways, our footsteps echoing off the cold floors. The walls are a clinical white, the furniture sparse and clean, like the house is barely lived in, more museum than home. People move around us with quick, purposeful strides, murmuring under their breath, casting wary glances our way as they pass.
Something’s off.
I grab Paulo by the elbow as he tries to duck away, my grip tightening when he flinches. “What aren’t you telling us?” My voice is low, deadly, each word laced with menace.
Fuck us over and die. Ex-member or not.
He shifts, avoiding my gaze, and scratches the back of his neck, old nervous habits resurfacing. “Look, just… don’t give Diablo a reason to look twice at you, yeah? Keep it simple. Don’t give too much away.”
His words settle like lead in my stomach, leaving a sour taste in my mouth as he disappears into the shadows, leaving us alone in the den. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, letting in the gray light of a stormy day. Ryder’s stomach growls, loud and unignorable, and I shoot him a glare as he shrugs.
“Can’t help it,” he mutters, rubbing his gut.
Silence stretches between us, thickening as minutes crawl by. Every nerve is on edge, every instinct screaming that we’re walking into a lion’s den dressed in a meat suit. My hand drifts to the grip of my pistol hidden in my waistband, fingers flexing over the cool metal as I watch for any sign of movement outside.
Ryder, Blaze and I never sought out to become some powerful Triad, but when the leader at the time targeted Vic—because again, she spoke before knowing who she was dealing with—we couldn’t just let him do what he pleased. We warned him to stay away, but did he listen? No. So what other choice did we have but to beat the shit out of him and take his gang over? We became the Iron Triad, leading a gang formed years before by the seniors of our school.
It was always passed down to a junior before the leading senior left. We, of course, disrupted that, becoming a three man team of leaders our Junior year. At the end of our senior year, when we’d made this thing into more than just a high school gang, we decided to keep it going rather than pass it down. Maybe we were trying to distract ourselves from the fact we would no longer be around her everyday.
When sophomore year of college ended and we saw how unhappy Vic was with her future as a result of what we'd done to her, we decided to disband. We’d revamped it, and it was too strong for some pompous arrogant asshole to get their hands on it for one year. Blaze, Ryder, and I looked at ourselves, really looked, and decided we needed to do better. None of us said it—at least not in so many words—but we were doing it for her. All of us hoped that, if the chance ever presented itself, we could be better men, and maybe, just maybe, she would accept us.
I'm snapped back to reality as I catch sight of a sleek black SUV rolling up, headlights cutting through the rain. Doors open and four men step out, big, armed, and stone-faced, shielding a smaller figure behind them. I can’t see his face, but I can feel the power radiating off him in waves. Diablo.
The door swings open and he steps in, his gaze sweeping over us with an unreadable expression, assessing, cataloging, each one of us under his scrutiny like we’re chess pieces on a board he’s about to conquer. He’s shorter than I expected but built solid, his face calm but marked with scars that speak of a lifetime of ruthless decisions. One scar cuts through his right eyebrow, pulling his gaze into a hard, unyielding line.
Diablo doesn’t speak right away. He lets the silence stretch, lets the tension build, his cold eyes moving between us, waiting, daring us to break first. The longer he stands there, the more the air thickens, the more my stomach clenches. It’s a power play, and we all know it.
“You’re here to make a deal,” he finally says, his voice low, rough, unhurried. “To ask for something you need. So let’s make this quick.”
Blaze shifts beside me, his posture stiff, gaze sharp as he holds Diablo’s stare. “We didn’t come here to waste your time. We need information on Nico and The Niners, and access to your network. In exchange, whatever you need that’s within our reach, you’ll have.”
Diablo’s lips twitch, a faint smirk curling as his gaze hardens and never leaves mine. A flicker of something dark glints in his eye as his brow furrows. Nico and his gang, The Niners, are more than just rivals—they’re probably a thorn in Diablo’s side he’d rather not deal with but can’t ignore.
There’s a beat of hesitation, the power dynamic shifting slightly as he considers our offer. He doesn’t trust us, just as we don’t trust him. It’s always a dance at these kinds of meetings, something I didn’t miss navigating.
“And you think that’s enough for me to stick my neck out? Convince me.” His voice is a drawl, taunting us to make our case.
I feel the beast inside me stir, that dark, snarling rage barely contained. I lean forward, locking eyes with him, letting him see the lengths we’ll go for this. “Nico has something that belongs to us, and we’ll burn through every last Niner to get it back. You want them gone? Give us what we need, and consider them dealt with.”
There’s a long pause, and for a moment I’m not sure he’ll agree.
Diablo’s gaze sweeps over us, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his belt. The silence stretches until he finally speaks.
“All right,” he says, voice gruff. “You get one chance. If you cross me, I’ll make sure you regret it. Nico’s been a real thorn in my side, if you can take care of him without me having to get involved, then I’ll call it even. But if you fail…” he pauses, letting the air around us tense. “You’ll have me to deal with, and it won’t be pretty.”
With a snap of his fingers, one of his men hands him a sleek tablet. Diablo scrolls through a few screens, then turns the tablet to face us. It’s a photo, grainy and dark, taken at night. Nico stands outside an old, derelict building, a shadow of a structure that could have been a hospital or maybe an asylum in another lifetime. The walls are stained and cracked, graffiti crawling up like veins, and the barred windows hint at a more sinister purpose.
“Nico’s been hiding out here,” Diablo says, tapping his finger once over the screen. “It’s an abandoned asylum on the outskirts of town. Place is a fortress, guarded day and night by his men. You want him? Start there. But don’t expect it to be easy.”
Blaze picks up the tablet, taking a closer look as he nods. “Consider the Niners taken care of.”
Diablo’s smirk stays fixed as he motions to his men, and two step forward to escort us out. “One more thing,” Diablo adds as we turn to look over our shoulders at him. “Don’t come back if you fail.”
The warning hangs in the air as we leave, making our way through the busy house. The moment we’re left alone, Ryder lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “So we’re up against Nico and an entire fortress in an old asylum. Great.”
Blaze tucks the tablet under his arm, his eyes cold and sharp. “It doesn't matter. We’re getting Tori out. No matter what.”
We head toward the garage, our minds firmly settled on getting Vic back, when we spot Paulo. He's giving orders, focused on his work, before he catches sight of us.
His smile is tight, barely there, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “How’d it go?”
“As good as it could have,” Ryder shrugs, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.
It’s the kind of answer that says nothing but means everything. We know where Tori is, but we’re tied up, waiting. Waiting until we’ve got the perfect plan, the right people. It’s the kind of thing that should be easy to manage—patience, timing, all that tactical shit—but the instinct to act is suffocating. We’re ready to tear our hair out, every second feeling like an hour.
We need to get her back, but we can’t rush it. Rushing led to Tori being captured when we tried to save Alicia. Rushing cost us her. If we fail this time…
Don't even think it.
I try to ignore the gnawing frustration, but it’s there, clawing at my insides. “Listen,” I begin, voice tight with restraint, “We might need more help. Do you still have Gerardo's number?”
“Yeah, I got it,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the side as if searching for an escape. He doesn’t want to give us the number. Not because he’s being difficult, but because he knows exactly what we’ll be unleashing.
Ryder shifts his weight, leaning in with that familiar smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. His eyes glint with something darker, something hungry. “So give us the number.”
Paulo doesn’t hesitate this time. He pulls out his phone, flicking through it with a speed that speaks of long practice, and hands it over.
Ryder takes the phone, staring at the screen for a moment, like he’s contemplating exactly how much fire we’ve just put in our hands. He grins. “This is exactly what we need. A bunch of bloodthirsty sons of bitches who live for the chaos.” He glances at me, his smirk still tugging at his lips.
Nico won't make this easy for anyone, and we’ll need a reckless, bloodthirsty team who’ll follow orders without hesitation.
“We’re gonna need more than just Gerardo,” I mutter, flicking my gaze to Blaze and Ryder. “We need more people who know how to get things done—whatever it takes.”
Ryder nods, already pulling up a new contact on his phone. “Yeah, Gerardo’s a beast, but he’s not exactly stealthy or all that bright. We need some brains to balance out the brawn.”
We spend a couple hours looking through our contacts and handpicking people we once worked with, either because they were part of our gang or part of an ally’s. Either way, we chose the best, made the calls, and ended up with a small team.
We had a scout, a sharpshooter, a medic, some brawns, and a tech guy who could be as annoying as stepping on something sticky and tracking it along with you for a while. He’s a lot to handle, but he does his job well. And honestly, at this point, I would put up with the devil himself to get Vic back in our hands.
“So, that’s Gerardo, Rick, Marisol, Claudia, and Max,” Paulo counts off, rubbing his chin. “But we’re still missing one. Someone to stir up the chaos while we slip in and do the dirty work. A distraction. A wildcard.”
“Keagan,” Ryder says with a grin, his eyes lighting up like it's Christmas. God, those two are a nightmare together. “You know Keagan will bring the fire. If we need someone to make a scene and draw attention, he’s our man.”
“I’m not sure Keagan’s the right choice,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “If he's the fire, you're the gas. The two of you together are too unpredictable.”
“You want predictable for this?” Ryder challenges, his smirk widening. “Keagan’s perfect for the job and you know it.”
I sigh, but I know he’s right. “Alright, Keagan’s in. But we keep him on a tight leash.”
Ryder laughs. “Keagan on a leash? You’re dreaming.”
I roll my eyes, but I know we’re close. The team’s shaping up, and it feels like we’re getting the right mix of muscle, brains, and firepower.
“Alright, everyone is accounted for. Now we get to work,” I say, glancing around at each of them. “We’ve got a location, we've got a team, now we just need to get our girl.”
Hold on for us, Vic. We're coming.