“Night-night, asshole,” I mutter as his body goes limp.
I give V a sharp hand signal—grab him.
We each take an arm and drag Holloway’s deadweight across the floor, hauling him through the back door and into the coolnight air. The gas is still thick, clinging to every surface, so I keep my mask on—lungs burning even through the filters.
V props Holloway against the wall and immediately gets to work, binding his wrists and ankles with zip ties. He doesn't need instructions.
I glance back toward the door. “Watch him,” I say through the muffled rasp of the mask. “I’ll grab what we need.”
V nods once, eyes already scanning the alley for potential trouble.
I step back inside, boots crunching over shattered glass and splintered wood. The gas hasn’t fully cleared—my vision blurs at the edges, throat raw despite the mask.
Holloway’s laptop sits half-sunk into the collapsed desk, the screen cracked but still glowing. A stack of papers is scattered nearby, some pinned beneath a toppled chair. I grab all of it—the laptop, the charger, every page that isn’t soaked or singed—and shove them into a cheap motel pillowcase I find on the bed.
I don’t have time to sort it. Just grab and go.
Because whatever’s on this hard drive or in these files?
It might be the chain that leads straight to Terrance.
And I plan to rip it link by link until I’ve got him by the throat.
When I step back outside, the pillowcase slung over my shoulder, Holloway’s head is slumped forward, chin to chest—completely at our mercy.
Just like Charlotte was supposed to be at his.
The symmetry isn’t lost on me.
We hoist him up between us, dragging him down the narrow alley and around the corner to the parking lot. The gas still clings to our gear, but the midday air is quiet. Too quiet.
Perfect time to disappear.
Holloway’s limbs flop like a rag doll as we carry him to the van. V slides the side door open, and we toss him in without ceremony. His head hits the metal floor with a solidthunk.
“Careful with the merchandise,” V mutters behind his mask.
“Fuck him,” I snap, slamming the door shut. “He doesn’t deserve gentle.”
We climb in—V taking passenger, me behind the wheel. I fire up the engine and ease the van out of the lot, smooth and steady. No rush. Just another delivery vehicle on another forgettable street.
We don’t speak until we’re four blocks out, gas residue still lingering in our gear, lungs working harder than they should.
Then, finally, V reaches up and pulls off his gas mask with a hiss of breath. I do the same, letting the stale air rush out as cooler oxygen fills my lungs.
Without a word, we both toss the masks into the back—where they land next to Holloway with a hollowclunk.
The drive back to the safe house feels longer than it should. My mind races with everything we've learned. Terrance hiring this professional kidnapper, the human trafficking operation, the connection to our club. The pieces fit together in a way that makes my stomach turn.
Holloway stays under the whole ride, whatever they used on that girl at the hotel working its magic on him now. Poetic justice.
“Dude's out cold,” V observes, checking on our cargo. “How long you think he'll stay that way?”
“Long enough,” I answer, pulling onto the highway.
V's phone buzzes. He checks it, then looks over at me. “Ratchet says everything's quiet at the house. Charlotte's asleep.”
Relief floods through me, loosening the knot in my chest. “Good. Let's keep it that way.”
