Chapter Five
The docks stretched dark and silent under the pale wash of moonlight.
Larkin kept low behind a stack of rusted barrels, her breath steady even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
She had slipped away from the tail Jackson had put on her hours ago, and every step felt like defiance wrapped in determination.
Her lead had pointed to this forgotten stretch of Silverlake where the water slapped against weathered pilings and the air carried the sharp scent of salt and diesel.
Somewhere in the maze of shipping containers and abandoned warehouses, she would find proof of Whitaker's hand in the thefts.
She had to. The politician's name was too clean, too careful.
She needed the ledger that would tie everything together before Jackson could shut her out again.
Larkin moved quickly along the edge of the water, boots silent on the concrete.
A single light flickered near a line of containers, casting long shadows that danced with every gust of wind.
She reached the second row and spotted the one marked with faded blue paint.
The lock hung broken, already pried open by someone careless or in a hurry.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old cardboard and machine oil.
She pulled a small flashlight from her jacket and swept the beam across stacked crates until she found what she was looking for.
A metal box sat wedged between two larger containers, the kind that held manifests and invoices.
She knelt, flipped it open, and found a ledger bound in cracked leather.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the pages. Numbers filled column after column. Dates. Amounts. Initials that matched shell companies she had already traced back to Whitaker. Her pulse quickened. This was it. The proof she needed.
A soft scrape of boots on concrete made her freeze. The light from outside shifted. Shadows lengthened across the container floor. Larkin's hand went to her phone, but before she could dial, the door clanged shut behind her.
"Well, well. Look what the tide washed in."
Hawk Landry's voice slithered through the darkness like oil. He stepped into the weak light, his yellowed eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. Two other Vipers flanked him, their cuts marked with the rival MC's insignia. Larkin's stomach dropped, but she forced her spine straight.
"You're trespassing, sweetheart," Hawk said, circling her slowly. "And that little book you're holding belongs to us."
Larkin clutched the ledger tighter. "I think the people of Silverlake will be very interested in what's written inside."
Hawk laughed, a low, rasping sound that made her skin crawl. He stepped closer, close enough for her to smell the sour mix of sweat and meth on his breath. "You got guts, I'll give you that. Most women would be crying by now. But you? You're still thinking about your story. That's cute."
One of the other Vipers grabbed her arm. Larkin twisted, but the grip was iron. Hawk's hand shot out and snatched the ledger from her fingers. He flipped through it lazily, then tossed it aside like trash.
"You think you're gonna bring down Whitaker with this?
You think your Bastard Kings fuckboy is gonna save you?
" He leaned in, his face inches from hers.
"Jackson Reed ain't here. Nobody's here.
It's just you and us. And I been waiting a long time to see what that pretty face looks like when the fear finally sinks in. "
Larkin spat at his feet. Hawk's smile widened, but his eyes stayed cold and dead.
"Tie her up," he ordered. "We're taking her with us. Whitaker wants to ask her some questions himself."
They bound her wrists with rough rope and shoved her toward the container door. Larkin's mind raced through every possible escape, but there were three of them and only one of her. She stumbled as they pushed her outside, the night air hitting her like a slap.
Across town, Jackson stood in the clubhouse lot, staring at his phone.
Larkin's last message had been short. A single line about following a lead.
He had told her to wait. He had told her to stay close.
The woman never listened, and now his gut twisted with the kind of dread he hadn't felt since he was a kid watching his mother's blood stain the floor.
He swung onto his bike and kicked it to life.
The engine roared beneath him as he tore through the streets of Silverlake, the wind whipping at his cut.
His heart hammered against his ribs in a way it hadn't in years.
The thought of Larkin alone, walking straight into Viper territory, made his vision narrow to a single point.
The docks came into view, a sprawl of rusted metal and dark water.
Jackson pushed the throttle harder. Then the engine sputtered.
The bike jerked once, twice, and died. He coasted to a stop, boots hitting the pavement hard.
He tried the ignition again. Nothing. The fuel line had been cut clean through. Someone had sabotaged him.
A gunshot cracked through the night, echoing from the direction of the warehouses. Jackson's blood turned to ice. He left the bike where it stood and started running, lungs already burning as he pushed his body faster than it wanted to go. Miles stretched between him and the sound. He ran anyway.
The abandoned warehouse loomed ahead, its windows broken and black.
Jackson's boots pounded the pavement. He rounded the corner and nearly tripped over something small and dark on the ground.
He dropped to one knee and picked it up.
Larkin's glasses, the lenses shattered, the frame bent.
A few feet away, her notebook lay open, pages soaked in a spreading pool of blood that gleamed wet under the moonlight.
Jackson's vision went red at the edges. He pressed his hand to the blood, still warm. She had been here. They had taken her. The Vipers' van was already a disappearing speck on the horizon road, taillights fading into nothing.
A roar tore from his throat, raw and primal.
He threw his head back and let the sound rip through the empty docks, fury and fear and something deeper than both of them.
She was gone. The one woman who had made him feel anything real in years, and he had no idea where they had taken her. No idea if she was still alive.
The wind picked up, carrying the distant rumble of the van's engine farther away.
Jackson stood slowly, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.
A mole in the club had cut his fuel line.
Someone he trusted had helped the Vipers get their hands on Larkin.
The betrayal burned hotter than the gunshot still echoing in his ears.
He pulled his phone out with shaking fingers. No signal. He tried again. Nothing. A final, cryptic text from Larkin sat in his drafts folder, never sent. Something about a basement near the old rail yard. He stared at the words until they blurred.
Jackson started walking toward the main road, every step heavy with the weight of what he had lost. The night pressed in around him, cold and merciless. Somewhere out there, Larkin was fighting for her life. And somewhere in the club, someone had sold her out.
He reached the edge of the docks and flagged down a passing truck.
The driver took one look at his face and didn't ask questions.
Jackson climbed in, gave directions, and stared out the window as the docks fell behind them.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking. Not from fear.
From the knowledge that the woman he had started to need was in the hands of men who enjoyed breaking things.
The truck dropped him near the rail yard.
Jackson moved through the shadows, every sense sharpened to a razor's edge.
He had lost her once tonight already. He would not lose her again.
The thought of her blood on that notebook drove him forward, past pain and exhaustion and every rule he had ever followed.
Silverlake slept around him, unaware of the war that had just begun. Jackson's jaw tightened. He would find her. He would bring her home. And when he did, someone was going to pay for every drop of blood they had spilled.