REBECCA
With mixed feelings, I push open the back door and step into the cool evening air.
The heavy metal door bangs shut behind me.
For a second, I just stand there. My chest feels tight.
Leaving goes against every instinct I have.
Every fiber of me wants to turn around, march back inside, and make sure Alessio is okay.
Instead... I'm keeping my promise. At least I'm trying to. Almost as if it has a mind of its own, my hand reaches for the knob again. Just then, my phone buzzes. Thinking it might be Alessio, I look down. No, not Alessio. Charly. My heart leaps into my throat.
Charly:
A semi just pulled into the driveway.
That must be the husband. Charly sent me some more info while I was at the bar earlier. The husband is a truck driver. So that makes sense.
I type back so fast I almost drop the phone.
Me:
Can you see him?
Charly:
Not clearly yet. He's parking.
I chew on my thumbnail. My heart is hammering. I can't even tell why anymore. Because Rachel might actually be alive? Because Alessio is twenty yards away walking into what feels like a war? Because everything I've spent four years chasing suddenly feels close enough to touch? Probably all of it.
Another text comes in.
Charly:
Want me to get closer?
I chew on my nails. I want him to storm in there and demand answers from the woman inside. But some of Alessio's cool must have rubbed off on me. Because I type:
Me:
No.
I send it before I can second-guess myself. But can't help but add.
Don't spook them.
Before he can answer, I type:
Can you get me a picture of the husband?
Just in case.
If it's safe.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Charly:
On it.
A tiny smile tugs at my lips. Of course he is. Charly is always three steps ahead of me. I slip the phone back into my pocket and take another step toward the alley. Come on, Beccs. One foot in front of… that's when I hear the first gunshot exploding from inside the clubhouse.
I freeze. Then another. Then three more. Alessio.
The thought detonates inside my head before I even realize my hand is turning the cold metal knob.
No. He told me to leave. He told me… another burst of gunfire erupts from inside. My pulse slams into overdrive. My knuckles turn white on the doorknob as I fight myself.
Stop. I scream at myself. What are you going to do? Run inside? Get shot? Become one more thing Alessio has to worry about? You don't even have a gun.
Think, Beccs. Think.
The SUV.
Alessio made sure I knew where it was parked at all times. If anything ever goes wrong, this is where Rossi will be.
I turn and sprint down the alley—it's not far, a minute tops—but with all the adrenaline running through my body, my lungs burn in rhythm with the pounding of my boots against the cracked asphalt.
Almost there. Just a little farther. I round the last corner… and skid to a stop. Empty. The parking space is empty.
For a second my brain refuses to process what I'm seeing. No SUV. No Rossi. No guards. Nothing.
"What...?"
Panic surges through me all over again. Did they leave? Were they hit? Were they—
"Rossi told me to wait for you here." I whirl around. Olivere steps out from the narrow gap between two parked pickups, gun drawn, his eyes trained on the clubhouse. "Rossi drove the car to help the boss."
Oh thank God. Relief floods through me. If Rossi is backing Alessio up… not that I doubt Alessio's capabilities of taking care of himself, but there are a lot of bikers inside. Knowing he has his guards helps me relax, at least some.
Movement across the street catches my eye. The owner of the wine shop stands frozen in his back doorway, staring toward the clubhouse. Which is out of my line of sight right now. But the sound of gunfire is unmistakable. His hand disappears into his pocket. Phone.
"Olivere." The guard follows my gaze. "The wine guy."
"I got it."
Without another word, he jogs across the street.
The shop owner notices him coming and freezes.
Good. That should buy Olivere enough time to tell him that it's in his best interest not to call the cops.
I watch them talk for a few seconds, while I make my way back towards the front of the clubhouse.
I can see the SUV now and… Alessio. I want to run to him, relieved to see him unharmed. But he's not alone. I watch Gabe put Audra carefully into the SUV. Something is wrong. Alessio is helping him, and I don't want to distract him right now.
Olivere returns, a grim smile on his lips. "Looks like the lady got hurt."
"A—" I start calling for him, my hand is in the air, ready for a wave, but as the SUV takes off like a bat out of hell, Alessio is on the phone and back on his way inside.
"The boss will be fine," Olivere assures me. "I'm calling for more cars." He pulls out his phone.
The relief of seeing Alessio lasts exactly three seconds until the scream of tires shreds the silence. I whip around just as two white cargo vans explode around the corner, taking the turn far too fast for vehicles that size.
"Shit." Olivere grabs the back of my jacket and yanks me sideways so hard my shoulder slams into the brick wall. Before I can protest, he shoves me into the recessed loading dock beside the end of the alley, pressing me behind a stack of empty crates and a blue industrial dumpster.
"Stay down," he hisses.
I crouch instinctively, barely daring to breathe.
One of the vans swings sideways, blocking the mouth of the alley.
The second backs toward the rear entrance of the clubhouse with terrifying precision, its sliding door rolling open before it even comes to a complete stop. Every hair on my body stands on end.
Olivere and I exchange a quick look. The way he tilts his head tells me he's thinking the same as me.
Which is that these vans definitely don't belong to the motorcycle club.
The Black Canyon Reapers don't move like this.
They're loud. Chaotic. Impulsive. This...
is disciplined. Calculated. Professional.
My stomach drops.
The radio clipped to Olivere's shoulder erupts in static. Then Rossi's voice shouts out, "Contact!"
Gunfire explodes through the speaker and from the alley behind us in a horrible version of stereo. It's nothing like the sporadic pops from inside the clubhouse earlier. These are short, controlled bursts. They come from automatic weapons.
"They're behind us!" Rossi shouts.
More shots. Someone screams. Another burst cuts them off. Rossi's voice is strained but still controlled. "We're pinned!"
Pinned? How? My pulse roars in my ears.
The rear door of the clubhouse slams open so violently it bounces against the brick wall. Flea appears first. His gun sweeps the alley. He's checking and clearing the area. I watch in horror as he grabs someone by the arm. No, not someone. My heart stops. Alessio.
His head hangs forward, his dark hair hiding most of his face. His feet drag uselessly across the concrete while two men in black tactical gear haul him between them.
No leather cuts. No biker patches. Instead, they wear body armor. No tattoos. Gloves and earpieces.
"Shit—" Olivere suppresses a curse.
Everything is happening so fast that neither of us has time to think. In horror, I watch the men's economical movements. They're sharp and practiced, like they've rehearsed this exact extraction a dozen times.
These aren't Reapers. These aren't even bikers. Oh God. The Collector.
After everything Alessio told me about him, I'm certain this has to be his doing. My hand flies to my mouth as they reach the waiting van.
Flea glances over his shoulder, scanning the alley. I flatten myself against the brick wall, barely daring to breathe. Please don't look this way. Please...
Over Olivere's radio, I hear more gunfire and Rossi's voice, "They've got the boss."
"Fuck," another man exclaims.
"We can't get out, we're pinned," a third shouts, frustration clearly audible.
"Go help them. Him!" I push against Olivere.
The men heave Alessio into the back of the van like he's nothing more than cargo. The sliding door slams shut.
"You're my priority." Olivere contradicts, his mouth set into a grim line, as he stands in front of me, blocking me. My phone vibrates so violently in my pocket that I almost scream. Once. Twice. Three times.
A name flickers over my watch and catches my attention, despite the horror show around me. Charly.
With trembling fingers, I pull my phone free.
Charly:
I'm positive it's her.
The words punch every bit as hard as the sight of Alessio disappearing into that van. Another message appears before I can even process the first.
They're out with a bunch of luggage.
They're leaving.
And then the last that guts what's left of my heart.
You should come.
Everything inside me freezes. He says it's her. Rachel. And he says she's leaving. Again. Maybe forever. My gaze jerks from the glowing screen to the white van.
The engine growls. The tires begin to roll. I look toward the alley where Rossi disappeared, where he and his men are pinned down, the gunfire still going strong. Olivere is still blocking me.
The van is backing up out of the alley.
If I don't follow them... who will? My eyes drift to the line of motorcycles parked outside the clubhouse.
Along with teaching me to use any weapon he could get his hands on, my father also taught my siblings and me to operate anything with wheels and even some things without, like speedboats.
Riding a bike is like driving a car to me.
I've hotwired plenty. Engines are engines.
Spark. Fuel. Compression. They all speak the same language.
You should come.
Three hours. That's all it would take to reach Phoenix if I left now.
Charly will stay on Rachel. He promised. He wouldn't lose her. He'd call the second something changed.
But Alessio... the image of him being dragged across the pavement flashes through my mind again. Unconscious. Defenseless.
The man who'd spent the last two weeks making sure I was never alone. Who'd parked across the street every single night. Who'd begged me—actually begged me—to leave when Audra was brought in. Who'd looked me straight in the eyes and said, I've got you.
My fingers curl around the handle of my stiletto until the metal bites into my palm. I don't know who those men are. I don't know where they're taking him. I don't know if he'll still be alive by the time anyone finds him.
"Hang on," I whisper into the empty alley, tears burning my eyes. "I've got you now."
I don't know if I'm talking to Alessio. Or Rachel. Maybe... both.