REBECCA
Gunfire still rings out from the back alley. The white van disappears around the corner. For one endless second, I don't move. I can't. It's like somebody reached inside my chest and ripped out my heartbeat. Alessio.
The image of him hangs behind my eyes. His boots dragging over the asphalt. His head hanging forward. Not fighting. Not swearing. Not moving.
The strongest man I've ever met... carried away like he weighed nothing.
"No..." The word comes out so quietly I barely hear it myself.
The engine noise fades into the distance. Gone. Just like that. My phone vibrates again. I look down.
Charly:
She's getting into the truck.
Another message arrives before I can breathe.
Beccs. If you're coming, you need to leave now.
The screen blurs. Rachel. Four years. Four years of wondering if she'd been chained in a basement.
Sold. Buried in the desert. Dead. Four years of working every extra shift.
Of fixing cars until my hands bled. Of following every worthless lead.
Of waking up every morning with one thought. Find Rachel.
Now... she's three hours away. Three hours! Alive. In three hours, I could hold her. Touch her.
And Alessio... I look back toward the street where the van disappeared. Whoever took him wasn't from the MC. Everything about them screamed military. Professional. Planned. I'm pretty sure it was the Collector's work.
I don't even know where they're taking him. A crackle explodes from the radio clipped to Olivere's shoulder.
Rossi's voice sounds out over the gunfire. "Dino, are you still pinned?"
"...afraid so..."
Another burst of interference.
"...Marco... Marco? Fuck."
Silence.
My blood runs cold. Olivere's eyes move from me, to where the van disappeared, to where the sound of gunfire is still coming from.
"Go get them out," I tell him.
That's Alessio's only chance. If Olivere can sneak up on the men ambushing Rossi and the others, they can take their van and follow Alessio… even though I know that they'll be too late. By then any trace of the van will be long gone.
Another text comes through.
Charly:
I'm going to follow them, but it looks like they're going to the airport.
Damn it. I squeeze my eyes shut. Think. Think. Think. Alessio would know what to do. That's the problem. Alessio isn't here. I have to figure it out. I force myself to breathe. One. Two. Three.
Mechanics don't panic. Mechanics diagnose. What's in front of me?
Rachel.
Safe. Charly has eyes on her. Charly promised he'd follow.
Alessio. Kidnapped. Nobody has eyes on him. Nobody knows where he went. Nobody can follow the kidnappers, except... me.
I watched the van leave. I know which direction it took. I again look toward the row of motorcycles parked outside the clubhouse. Then at Olivere. If he decides not to let me go, he's going to be a problem. "I'm going after him. Also, I need a gun."
Olivere blinks. "No."
"I'm not asking."
"Boss said—"
"The boss is unconscious in the back of a white cargo van."
For the first time since I met him... Olivere actually looks uncertain. "I promised him I'd keep you safe."
I meet his eyes. "And I promised myself I'd stop letting the people I love disappear."
Silence stretches between us, interrupted only by the unceasing gunfire.
I'm amazed the cops haven't shown yet. Then again, if this was the Collector's doing, from everything I know about that man, he'll delay them.
For all I know, he blew up fucking McNair or Nelly's Air Force base to keep the fuckers busy.
"I know you have a spare gun." I stare at Olivere. "Tell Rossi I'll call him."
"Fuck!" Olivere pulls out a gun from behind his waistband, then hands me the 9mm.
I check it quickly, while sprinting toward the bikes. It looks good. Looking over my shoulder, I yell at Olivere, "Get Rossi out so we can get the boss back."
Olivere curses again and takes off, while I look the bikes over.
Harleys. I dismiss the first one with barely a glance. Beautiful machines. Heavy as hell. Great for cruising. Terrible for weaving through traffic. The next one isn't any better. Fat Boy. Too much chrome. Too much weight. I keep moving. An Indian. Not bad. Still not what I need. Come on... think.
Dad's voice echoes through my head. Right tool for the right job, Becca.
A smile almost tugs at my lips. Leave it to my father to choose now of all times to haunt me.
My gaze lands on a black Yamaha MT-07 tucked between two Harleys.
There you are. Light. Fast. Narrow enough to split traffic. Exactly what I need.
I crouch beside it. The steering lock doesn't even slow me down. Thirty seconds later, the ignition housing hangs loose. A few exposed wires. A twist. A spark.
The dash lights up. The fuel pump hums. I swing a leg over the seat.
It settles comfortably beneath me, almost familiar.
Not because it's this bike. Because bikes are bikes.
Clutch. Throttle. Rear brake. Nothing I haven't done before.
I thumb the starter. The engine barks to life.
A grin slips across my face despite everything. "Thanks, Dad."
You taught me something worth remembering.
I click into first. Twist the throttle. The Yamaha leaps forward. My eyes lock on the street where the white van disappeared. "Hang on, Ice King. I'm coming."
The rear tire chirps as I swing out onto the road, following the direction the white van disappeared. The afternoon traffic is thicker than I expected. Families. Delivery trucks. Tourists. People living perfectly ordinary lives while mine is coming apart at the seams. Come on... Come on...
I force myself to slow down. Not because I want to. Because if I ride like a maniac, I'll never find him. Think. The Collector didn't spend years planning this just to lose Alessio because one of his drivers ran a red light. These men are professionals. Professional people don't attract attention.
They don't speed unless they have to. They blend. My eyes scan every white cargo van ahead of me. Ford Transit. Wrong dent. Mercedes Sprinter. Wrong ladder rack. Ram ProMaster. Company logo. Not them.
I weave between two pickup trucks, ignoring the blaring horn behind me.
Another white van merges onto the interstate.
No windows. No markings. My pulse spikes.
I close the distance. Utah plates. No. Not it.
The bumper is pristine. The one that took Alessio had scraped paint along the left rear corner where it clipped the dumpster coming into the alley.
I keep going. Every second feels like another mile between us.
My phone vibrates inside my pocket. I don't even think about looking.
I keep my eyes on the road. Find the van first. Questions will have to come later.
The freeway opens up. Too many exits. Too many places to disappear.
If I were transporting someone important...
industrial district. Warehouse. Airfield.
Rail yard. Somewhere nobody asks questions.
I glance at the fuel gauge. Three-quarters full.
Good. The Yamaha has enough range. The problem is...
I don't. I have no idea where I'm going.
But Vegas isn't Lady Fortuna's city for no reason. Half a mile ahead, I see another white van. Same make. Same model. Same black steel wheels. My heartbeat stutters. The left rear corner is scuffed. Gray paint. Exactly where it had rubbed against the dumpster.
"There you are."
I don't get closer. Instead, I fall back three cars.
Charly taught me that one. Never tail so close they remember your face.
I helped him follow someone one time in exchange for him searching for Rachel—it was actually one of my better jobs.
The van takes Exit 22. Not toward the airport.
Toward the old industrial parks south of the city.
I smile for the first time since Flea dragged Alessio into the van.
"I've got you." The words are barely audible beneath the wind.
I reach into my pocket at the next red light, pull out my phone with one hand, and hit Rossi's number. "Are you still pinned down?"
"Beccs?"
I don't hear any gunfire in the background, so I assume Olivere got them out okay. "I'm tailing the van they took Alessio in. I'll also send you a link to my GPS."
He lets out a string of curses. Fuck this and fuck that are the tamest ones of them. Despite what is happening, I'm grinning. Hell, I'm feeling alive for the first time in… years. Probably ever since Daddy obliterated our family.
"Beccs, you need to stay away from this. Alessio will have—"
"What? Can't hear you, brr grr brr… static…. brmmm call you ba—"
I hang up and chance a glimpse at my phone to send him the GPS as promised. I'm not doing sixty miles on an overcrowded freeway with drunk drivers and criminals talking and texting on a motorcycle. No sirree.
I glance at the green freeway sign flashing past. SOUTH INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT. They're heading toward the old warehouses off Buckeye Road.
I tuck the phone back into my pocket. The van signals like a good citizen and turns through a rusted chain-link gate into an abandoned freight depot.
My stomach drops. This isn't a hideout. It's a fortress.
I roll past without turning my head, keeping my speed steady.
Then, fifty yards farther down the road, I duck into the shadow of an abandoned loading dock and kill the engine.
Silence crashes over me. I stare back through the fence.
Rows of warehouses. Shipping containers.
Semi-trailers. Enough hiding places to lose an army. Somewhere in there... is Alessio.
I rest my forehead against the handlebars for exactly one second. Then I sit up. "Alright, Ice King." A slow breath. "Let's see what your Grease Monkey can do."
I yank my phone out and hit Rossi's number.
"Where the fuck are you?"
I grin despite everything. "Careful, Rossi. If I tell Alessio you cursed me out, he'll have your head."
A low chuckle rumbles through the speaker. "If he doesn't kill me first for letting you follow that van, Beccs." His tone hardens instantly. "Seriously, Beccs. Stay the fuck back."
"I found them."
Silence, followed by a deep sigh. I know he knows that I'm Alessio's only chance here. And I'm pretty sure he hates it. "Where?"
I glance back through the cracked warehouse windows across the street. "Old freight depot off Buckeye. I'm sending you a pin."
My fingers fly across the screen. "There."
A second later, my phone chimes. "Got it."
"They turned through the rusted chain-link gate."
"Listen to me." Rossi's voice drops into pure command. "Do not go inside. You hear me?"
"Mhmm."
"That wasn't a yes."
"It was an acknowledgment."
"Becca."
"Rossi."
"You are sounding more and more like the boss every day."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
I laugh quietly. "You're about three minutes out."
"Four."
"Three if you stop driving like an eighty-year-old."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No..." I can hear the grin in his voice now. "But the boss is definitely rubbing off on you."
"Occupational hazard."
A semi roars past me, rattling the bike beneath me. I crouch lower behind an abandoned forklift, keeping my eyes on the depot.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Don't turn in."
"What?"
"Keep going another quarter mile."
"Why?"
"Because if I could spot this place from the road, then whoever's watching from the inside can see you."
He thinks it over for a moment.
"Keep driving," I continue. "Take the next right, loop around behind the old rail yard, then come back from the east."
"You think they're running security?"
"I know they are."
Another pause. "Fair."
"I'm going to get eyes on the place."
"No."
"Too late."
"Beccs."
"I'm not going in."
"Beccs..."
"I just need to know what we're dealing with."
"Goddammit—"
"I'll call you back."
"Don't you dare hang u—" I end the call.
The last word dies with the click. I slip the phone into my back pocket and look through the fence again.
There are rows of rusting trailers, shipping containers stacked three high, two warehouses, and an office building.
A lot of cover. Many blind spots. Why did they pick this place?
I don't even make out any movement. Which somehow worries me even more.
But if the Collector thinks he's the only one who knows how to stalk his prey... he's about to be disappointed.
I crouch behind a stack of half-rotten pallets and let my eyes adjust. Dad always said the woods and the city weren't all that different. The first idiot dies because he's looking where he's going. The smart one looks where somebody wants him to go.
I never understood what he meant when I was twelve.
I do now. I don't look at the warehouse.
I look around it. Fresh tire tracks. Boot prints.
Broken weeds. Places where gravel has been disturbed recently.
Nothing. Too clean. That alone makes me suspicious.
Nobody uses a place like this without leaving a mess.
Which means someone cleaned it. Or someone doesn't walk where they aren't supposed to.
I slow down another notch. No rushing. No assumptions.
A rusted chain-link fence surrounds the property.
The gate stands open just enough for a vehicle to squeeze through.
I follow the fence line instead of entering, keeping low whenever light catches the wire.
Two cameras. Easy enough to spot. One above the office door.
Another watching the loading dock. They're angled to cover the obvious approaches.
Which means the blind spots—I smile—are probably intentional.
My gaze drifts upward. Power lines. A transformer.
Then farther back. There. A squat green utility box humming softly beside a weathered cinderblock building.
Not city power. Backup distribution. Probably feeding the warehouse directly.
I don't know the first thing about hacking cameras.
Or bypassing alarms. Hell, I wouldn't even know where to start.
But electricity?
Electricity doesn't care who owns the building. It only cares where it's coming from. Dad used to laugh every time I'd ask how some complicated machine worked. Every machine looks scary until you find the power source. Then he'd tap the battery. Everything starts here.
A warehouse isn't much different. Find the power.
Control the power. Control the building.
I study the yard between me and the utility box.
Open ground. Too open. A pair of armed men stroll lazily between two shipping containers, rifles hanging loose in their hands.
They're talking. Laughing. Not alert. Confident.
I glance back toward the road. Come on, Rossi...
just a few more minutes. Until then... I need to figure out exactly what keeps this place alive.