Chapter 33
Sarge
You need to come over here. Now.
The streets blur past as we roar toward Velvet. My hands grip the bars like they’re the only thing holding me together—every second drags.
The thought of other motherfuckers lusting after what’s mine is enough to make me insane.
We pull up just as the neon starts to flicker, signaling the end of the night. Last call in progress. I slam my kickstand down and head straight for the door. Grimace and the others are right behind me.
The bouncers block our path. “Sorry, boys. Last call. You can’t—”
I cut him off with a quick raise of my hand. My voice is low, but the threat is loud. “We’re not here to drink. Fucking. Move.”
The bouncers hesitate, sizing us up. I glance past them and spot a third guy—one who actually knows who I am. He gives a quick nod to the waste of steroids blocking my way. The guy steps aside without another word.
I push past him, shoulder-checking the prick on my way in. Fuck that guy.
Inside, the remnants of the night hang in the air. This place always smells the same—like glitter and sweat. The guys love coming here to let off steam, but I don’t care to join them.
We head to a table, and I force myself to sit. I want to tear the place apart to find her, but I’m trying not to cause more trouble than necessary. Not yet.
She always texts me at 3 a.m. to let me know she’s on her way home. It’s just after 2 a.m., so she’s still here.
We get comfortable, and a waitress comes to take our order. They normally have a two-drink minimum, but since we barely made last call, we all ordered just one drink.
A few songs play, and girls come and go from the stage. None of them my girl. It’s nearing 2:30 now, and I’m getting antsy.
One of the dancers comes over to ask if anyone wants a private dance. I don’t even meet her eyes, but I can see that Ace is dying inside. He wants that dance, and he sucks at hiding it.
“Fuckin’ go for it, man.” I can’t help but be amused. I remember being his age and finding it all new and exciting.
She grabs his hand and leads him to the private rooms that are closed off by a curtain.
Fuck.
Private rooms. Private dances.
Hannah.
I move fast, pulling back every curtain. No fucking way my woman is giving any man but me a private show. Six rooms, but no Hannah.
I leave Ace to his dance, but I continue my search. She should be here. Whenever I’ve been dragged here, they’ve had the girls either work the stage or the floor. She’s doing neither, and she’s not in the private rooms.
Where the fuck is she?
“Get the fuck up,” I demand to the rest of the guys.
Together, we search every corner, every shadow, every room, including the bathrooms. Stage, dressing room, hallways; we leave nothing unchecked. But there’s no Hannah.
“Something isn’t right. You sure you saw her here?” I growl at Wolf.
“Sure as shit, man. It was your girl. Paw tattoo on her shoulder blade?”
I hate that he knows that, but yeah. That’s her. I nod, unable to say anything through my anger.
Bear moves to the bar where one of the dancers is sitting and slips her some cash as he leans into her. She whispers something in his ear, and his face turns to stone. He nods and marches back to me.
“She left,” he says. “Over an hour ago.”
My gut twists. Hannah doesn’t leave early, and if she did, she’d tell me. I yank my phone from my pocket and scroll. Fuck.
There it is—a message sent at 1:35 am: Headed home from work. Missing you.
She always texts at 3 a.m. Now I imagine it’s because that’s when this shit establishment closes. She sends: On my way, then: Home safe, wish you were here, fifteen minutes later—every single night.
We talk all day about everything under the sun, but those texts are always the constant.
This one is too early, and there’s no follow-up message saying she made it home.
I swallow my panic and force myself to focus. “Hey, you know a girl here who goes by Lily?” I ask the one bouncer I recognize, posted by the door in his button-down and slacks, looking too professional for a place like this.
He threw Booker out about three years ago when we came as a group. Dude really cannot hold his alcohol.
“I don’t give information on the girls, man.”
“Listen,” I say low. “That’s my woman, and I can’t find her. I need something, anything.” I want to rip his throat out, even if he’s only doing his job. My blood is boiling. Bum arm or not, I will rock his world if he withholds any information that could help Hannah.
He rubs his jaw, looking me up and down. “I escort her out every night. Have for months, but not tonight.”
“Why the fuck not?” I bite out. “Shitty part of town, beautiful woman, dark parking lot.”
Blue, per his name tag, shifts. “Dealing with low-lives grabbing the talent. Was kicking them out. She must’ve left without waiting for me to be done.”
Maybe she’s home, too tired to text. Not a fan of the thought, but it’s better than almost any alternative.
“Gizmo,” I snap. “Older four-door gold Honda Civic, ‘But Did You Die?’ sticker on the back window. See if it’s in the lot.”
I try calling Hannah while Gizmo looks, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I try again. Same result.
Where the fuck are you, Hannah? I scroll through our texts again. Nothing else, nothing to explain this.
My phone lights up. Gizmo. “Hey, Giz—”
“Got the car,” he says, sounding breathless. “You need to get over here. Now.”
“Gizmo’s got the car,” I yell, and the crew moves out the doors as fast as a gunshot. “Where are you?”
“West side of the building. Near the side door.”
Less than a minute later, we’re at Hannah’s car. The driver’s door sits wide open.
My head swims. Her stuff is sitting neatly on the passenger seat. Her keys lie on the broken pavement three feet away. This wasn’t an accident. This was a struggle.
“Someone has my woman,” I say. The words feel like ash in my mouth.
“Raydar,” I bark. “Need you to trace her phone.”
He leans against Hannah’s trunk and boots up his laptop. “On it, Prez.”
Thank God the nerd hauls his setup everywhere.
If this fucker finds her, I’ll patch him in right here and now. Fuck the year-long wait. He’ll have earned it by saving her from whatever hell has her.
He’s quick. “Last ping is south of here, just outside Rio Rico.”
“What the fuck is out there?” I snap at no one in particular.
Bear is the one who answers. “Not shit, other than a whole lot of desert.”
“I’ll need my full setup to find out more,” Gizmo adds.
“Mount up. Giz,” I order. “Wolf, get a prospect to keep an eye on this car. Lock it up, but otherwise leave it as is. We’ll tow it to the clubhouse at daylight. I want to know if anyone tries to come back for anything.”
The sound of roaring bikes fills the night air as we race back toward the clubhouse. I hate heading away from her, but searching the desert without a location would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
We pull up to the clubhouse, locking the tall iron gates behind us. Gizmo runs to his nerd cave, booting up the systems to tear apart that shit-hole border town.
Rio Rico. Shit, there’s nothing out there but dirt, prickly pears, and people who don’t want to be found.
It’s the kind of place you go when you’re either hiding a body or cooking something that’ll rot your teeth out.
It’s a glorified staging ground for the cartels.
Half the town is decent folk, and the other half contains undocumented meth labs in mobile homes held together by duct tape and zip ties.
It’s the perfect place for a monster to disappear.
It’s up to us to find who took her, and I’ll be the one to personally send them to hell.