Chapter 63
Astor
“The tires are slashed.”
“What?”I look up as Cillian strides across the office.
“All four, slashed. Fresh, best I can tell.”
“On the Tahoe?”
“Yes—and your car is gone too.”
My stomach drops.
“Where’s Sabine?” I croak.
“I don’t know.”
I lunge out from behind the desk and sprint down the hall, yelling her name. With each vacant response, my pulse beats faster.
Is Carlos here? How did he get past the security cameras?
I burst into her bedroom.
A half-packed bag lies on the bed, a glass of water on the nightstand.
There’s an energy in the room that sends a chill up my back. Something bad lingers here. Something evil.
Screaming her name like a madman, I check the bathroom, the closet, even under the bed like a fool.
“Check every room in the house.”
“On it.” Cillian spins on his heel and jogs down the hall.
My heart roaring, I pick up the black sweatshirt lying on the bed—my sweatshirt—as a million thoughts run through my head. But there is only one that matters.
I need to find her. Period.
Taking the shirt with me—no clue why, other than it feels like a piece of her with me—I jog out of the room and meet Cillian in the foyer.
“She’s not here.”
“Outside? The dock?”
“No. And Pri’s gone too.”
It’s as if the world suddenly stops spinning and a little echo of a voice materializes in my head.
“Pri hates me, Astor.”
“Pri wants me gone.”
“She makes me feel uneasy.”
“Pri saidyou gave her Valerie’s clothes for me to wear ...”
In a dizzying revelation, everything comes together at once.
Prishna took Sabine. She put Valerie’s things in Sabine’s room, she’s been watching Sabine from the woods, she cut Sabine’s hair—because she’s one of the few people who know that Chloe’s was cut in the same way.
Prishna—one of my most trusted associates.
It’s too much to comprehend at the moment, the why and how of it. Only one thing matters, and that’s to get Sabine back.
“She’s got her,” I croak out. “Pri’s got Sabine.”
“I never liked that woman, boss. Never.”
I pull my cell phone from my pocket and call Pri’s number.
It goes to voice mail.
Again. Same result.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I try one more time, praying she answers and tells me something innocent, like Sabine asked her to take her somewhere. But I know, in my gut, that’s not true.
“Fuck!”
A rush of rage blows though my system.
“Where are you going?” Cillian barks as I push past him.
“To find Sabine.”
The garage smells like fresh exhaust. Wherever Prishna is taking Sabine in my car, she’s only just left. The only other vehicle, the Tahoe, is sitting on four flat wheels.
I sprint across the garage, rip off the vinyl cover, and stare down at the blacked-out Harley I haven’t ridden in years.
After Valerie and I moved to the lake house, she enjoyed taking hours-long drives through the mountains on the bike. The doctor had advised us to do it. Said fresh air and sunshine would help her depression. I haven’t had it serviced since. Honestly, I hate the thing.
Cillian frowns, striding across the garage. “It’s raining, boss.”
“Do you have another suggestion?”
“Yeah, give me ten minutes to switch out these tires for spares.”
“We don’t have ten minutes. The rain is going to wash away the tire tracks from the car—maybe already has. I’ll lose her if I don’t have fresh tracks to follow.”
Cillian jabs his fingers through his hair, clearly disliking this idea.
I focus on the bike. I know, at the very least, I should check the battery and fluid levels, but I don’t have time. I figure I’ll ride it as far as it takes me, then follow them on foot if I must. That is, if the thing even starts in the first place.
I swing my leg over the bike and settle onto the seat with Sabine’s sweatshirt on my lap. Cillian is already working on switching out the tires on the Tahoe.
It takes me a second to get my bearings. After engaging the choke, I turn the ignition.
The lights click on—dimly, but on, nonetheless.
Hell yes.
I take a deep breath and place my hand on her sweatshirt, then whisper, “To whoever is in charge of this crazy universe, I’m calling in a favor right now.”
I close my eyes as I squeeze the clutch and press the start button. The engine roars to life.
I look over my shoulder at Cillian, who’s as surprised as I am.
“Well, son of a bitch,” he says with a grin.
Slowly, I back up, wobbly, still rusty on driving this hog.
Cillian meets at the garage door and hands me a helmet. “Don’t die, brother.”
“Bring some extra firepower,” I say, securing the sweatshirt to the back. “I have a feeling we’ll need it.”
“One step ahead of you.” He gestures to the guns and ammo already stacked on the floor next to the Tahoe. “Go get your girl.”
I slide on the helmet, shift the gear, and press the throttle.