Chapter 4 Tracking Prey
Chapter four
Tracking Prey
Zane
Candy's perfume clings to my leather cut like a mistake I haven't made yet. Her voice in my head from an hour ago. Both feel permanent.
I’m sitting in the Iron Talons clubhouse at 2 AM. Candy's trying to climb into my lap for the third time tonight. Joker's making jokes that aren't funny. Brick's silent in the corner. Ghost knows something's different. Keeps looking at me.
Can't stop thinking about the sounds she made. Counted them. Seventeen moans. Three gasps. One perfect break. Then Spanish—cursing in Spanish when she came. Lost count after that. First time I've lost count of anything since Emma.
"You're distracted," Ghost says. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"The wrong number?"
"Yeah."
He nods. Doesn't judge. That's brotherhood. Knowing when your brother's lost to something. Someone. Emma knew that look. Called it my 'gone forever' face. She was right then. And he’s right now.
Can't stop thinking about her voice when she said forty-five was too old. The way she paused when I said it out loud. Like she was calculating. Thirty-one. Young enough to have a life ahead. Old enough to know better. Does it anyway.
Candy slides closer. "You want company tonight, Zane?"
"No."
"You never want company."
"Then stop asking."
She doesn't. They never do. Think they can fix what's broken. Can't fix what's not trying to be whole. Emma tried. Died trying. Angel's not trying to fix. She's just... existing. In the chaos. Like me.
Pull up my laptop. The trace from Digger is narrowing. Medical professional in Phoenix. Weekend shifts. Lives alone—no roommate noise during our call. Drinks wine. Makes tamales. Latina—the Spanish when she came confirmed it. Natural, not learned. First language saved for when control breaks.
Forty tamales. Stress-cooking about me. Like I've been checking my phone every five minutes since she came.
Her sound. That perfect break in her breath. Then Spanish. Lost count. Started over. Seventeen moans. Three gasps. One perfect break. One Spanish prayer.
"Earth to Zane." Joker's in my face. Bad move.
"Back up,” I growl out of instinct.
"Just saying, you're gone, brother. Whoever she is, she's got you twisted."
It’s not your fucking business.
Ghost sits next to me. "You gonna find her?"
"Yeah."
"That smart?"
"No."
"But you're doing it anyway."
"Yeah."
He nods. He gets it. We all have our things. His is protecting the club. Mine was Emma. Now it's Angel. I don't know her name. Her face. Her history. But I know her sounds. Her laugh. The way she breathes when she's fighting herself. The way she curses in Spanish when she stops fighting.
And I know she made forty tamales thinking about me.
Know she's thirty-one. Calculated that from her experience. She didn't deny it. Smart enough to be established. Young enough to take risks.
Pull up social media. Search parameters: Phoenix, nurse, Latina, weekend shift, 31. Thousand possibilities. Narrow it down. UNM Hospital tags. Presbyterian. Look for someone who posts about cooking. Wine. Someone with dark humor.
Nothing definitive. Good. Means she's smart. Careful online. Reckless with wrong numbers.
My phone buzzes. Her.
I'm professionally compromised and personally destroyed. Thanks for that.
You're welcome.
That wasn't a compliment.
Yes, it was.
I have masa in my hair and shame in my soul.
And my voice in your head.
Three dots. Stop. Start. Stop.
Arrogant.
Accurate.
I'm too young for you.
Probably.
Definitely.
Didn't stop you from coming.
I'm blocking you.
No, you're not.
I should.
Should and will are different words.
How many people have you killed?
The question hangs there. Truth or lie. I go for a partial.
Less than deserved it. More than I should have.
That's not an answer.
It's the only answer you get.
Are you dangerous?
Yes.
To me?
I count to ten before answering. Emma asked once if I was dangerous. I said no, and was wrong. My world killed her. Different kind of danger. Same result.
Not in the way you're thinking.
What way then?
The way that makes you take your shirt off for a stranger.
That was a moment of weakness.
That was a moment of truth.
She doesn't respond for thirteen minutes. I count each one. Then lose count around seven when I remember the Spanish. Start over. Thirteen.
I made too many tamales. Stress-cooking is my toxic trait.
Mail me some.
To where? Murderer's house, Danger Lane, Bad Decisions, New Mexico?
I almost smile. Almost. Emma would've liked her. The humor. The darkness underneath. The way she doesn't pretend things are fine.
Go to sleep, Angel.
Can't. Too wired. Too... processed.
Touch yourself again.
Absolutely not.
You're already thinking about it.
I'm thinking about a lot of things. Like why I'm texting someone who could be plotting my murder.
If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't need texts.
That's not reassuring.
Wasn't meant to be.
I sense that Ghost is watching me. He knows I'm gone. Lost to whatever this is. Whoever she is.
"You need backup?" he asks. “You seem really sucked into whater conversation you got going on there.”
"For what?"
"For whatever stupid thing you're about to do."
"No."
"You sure?"
I look at him. He knows, and sees it. The same look I had before Emma. Before Beth. Before everything went to shit. The look that says I've found something. Someone. The look that comes before the fall.
"I'm sure."
He nods, and gets up. "Try not to get dead."
"Yeah."
I won't get dead. I might get worse. Might get better. Might get her.
Phone buzzes again.
Goodnight, Wrong Number. Thanks for... whatever this was.
This isn't over.
It should be.
Should and will are different words, Angel.
Using my own words against me is cheating.
Everything about this is cheating. Cheating fate. Cheating sense. Cheating the rules.
I don't like cheaters.
You don't like safe either.
Goodnight, dangerous stranger who makes me make terrible decisions.
Goodnight, Angel who makes too many tamales.
I pull up the trace again and narrow the search. Weekend nurse. Latina. Makes tamales. Lives alone. Thirty-one years old. Somewhere in Phoenix. Someone who texts a stranger about bullets and comes to his voice. Curses in Spanish when control breaks.
Someone named Angel who won't say my name but knows I'm dangerous. Knows I'm too old. Comes anyway.
I will find her. Not tomorrow. Not next week. But soon.
I count to sixty.
She's gone for tonight. Can feel it. The way the air changes when someone leaves. Even through a phone. Even through miles.
Still count to sixty. Lose track at forty-three thinking about the Spanish.
The clubhouse fades. The noise. The smoke. The life I built after Emma. All of it secondary to a voice that breaks just right. To texts that cut through the nothing.
To an angel who makes forty tamales and comes to my voice—a voice she doesn't know belongs to someone named Zane Quinn, President of the Iron Talons, killer of men who deserve it.
She just knows it as the voice that makes her break. In English first. Spanish when control dies.
Mine to find.
Mine to keep.
Mine.