“Ease up on the gas, brother. Can't kill this asshole if we wrap ourselves around a telephone pole first.”
V braces one hand against the dashboard, the other flying across his phone screen. I grunt but let up slightly, just enough to keep us from becoming roadkill. The van’s engine sputtersbeneath us. These things were made for moving cargo. Not for speed, but I don’t give a fuck.
“Talk to me,” I demand, weaving through traffic. “What do we know about Holloway?”
V whistles low, eyes locked on his screen. “Ex-military for sure. Army Rangers, two tours in Afghanistan. Dishonorable discharge five years ago.”
“For what?”
“Excessive force during an interrogation. Beat a civilian half to death.” V's voice hardens, “Guy's got a reputation for wet work since then. Independent contractor, specializes in retrieval.”
“Retrieval,” I spit the word like poison. “You mean kidnapping.”
“Among other things. He's ghost-level connected, minimal digital footprint, but what's there isn't pretty.” V scrolls through something on his phone. “A guy like this isn’t going to go quietly.”
“Good.” I take the next turn hard enough to make the tires squeal. “I'm not in the mood for quiet.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a syringe with amber liquid, still capped and intact. “Pulled this off one of the three assholes. Might level the playing field.”
“That their knockout juice?”
“Same shit they used on that girl. Figured it might come in handy.” I toss it to him. “Keep it safe. If this Holloway fucker thinks he's hunting, let's show him what it feels like to be prey.”
V tucks the syringe carefully into his inside jacket pocket. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
“Loop Ratchet in. If this shit goes south, he needs to take Charlotte and get her to Upland. She'll be safe there.”
V's already texting. “You expecting this to go sideways?”
“I'm expecting anything. This guy's a professional, but so am I.”
V snorts, shooting me a sideways glance. “Never thought I'd see the day. You’re ready to wage war over a woman you’ve known for what, forty-eight hours?”
“Shut up.”
“No, no. This is special.” He's grinning now, the asshole, “I've seen you beat men to pulp for disrespecting the club or for crossing business lines. But this?” He gestures toward the road ahead. “This is personal. This is...” he whistles low, “...this is a man in love.”
“It's not like that,” the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
“Bullshit. You're ready to take on ex-military, human traffickers, and God knows what else for a woman you just met.” V shakes his head, “And I thought I fell hard.”
“Didn’t you catfish your wife?”
V shrugs, “Maybe a little, but I still got the girl.”
“She's under our protection,” I growl, but the excuse sounds weak.
“Under your protection,” V counters. “There's a difference. The way you look at her…like she's oxygen and you've been drowning your whole life.”
I say nothing, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. “You saw us together for five fucking minutes, and you think you have me all figured out?”
“Not judging, man. Maybe it’s the leather or we’ve smelled too much gasoline, but for whatever reason, when a Reject falls for a woman, it’s hard and fast. We should use that for our club motto.”
The Desert Palms Motel sign appears in the distance.
The motel is exactly what you'd expect, a single-story, L-shaped building with peeling paint and parking spots right outside each door. Perfect for quick exits. Perfect for ambushes, too.
I kill the engine. We sit in silence for a moment, scanning the row of doors, each one a possible hornet's nest.
