When we pull up to the house, I park around back. Ratchet emerges from the back door. A crooked smile forms on his face when he sees us. “Do I want to know why you both look like you just walked out of a doomsday movie?”
V moves to the van’s sliding side door and opens it. “Brought you a present, Ratchy. Meet the guy who is after Charlotte.”
Ratchet's smile vanishes when he sees Holloway's limp form. “Jesus Christ. Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” I grunt, grabbing Holloway's shoulders. “Help me get him to the basement.”
The three of us haul him through the back door and down the narrow stairs. The basement's concrete floor and cinder block walls will muffle whatever comes next. I drop Holloway onto a metal folding chair.
“Zip ties holding?” I ask V, checking the restraints.
“Like a fucking vise, but I think he needs an upgrade. I have some chains up in the van.” V sets the pillowcase of evidence on a workbench, and heads back upstairs for the chains.
“Want me to wake him up?” Ratchet adds, cracking his knuckles.
“Let V secure him first before you do your thing. Charlotte still sleeping?”
“Yeah, but she was asking about you earlier. Seemed worried when you didn't come back.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. She was worried about me. “She say anything else?”
“Just that she hoped you were being careful.” Ratchet's expression softens. “She's good people. Whatever this is about, she doesn't deserve it.”
I study Holloway's unconscious face—the strong jaw, the network of small scars. This is the man Terrance hired to drag Charlotte back to hell. The thought makes my hands clench into fists.
V appears a few minutes later with a coil of chains in his hand. “This should do it.”
Ratchet grabs them and secures Holloway to his new permanent address.
“Want some help, Ratchy?” V asks with a fucking smile on his face.
“I got this,” Ratch says, planting himself in front of Holloway. “He's not going anywhere.”
“Aww, fine. I’ll do my tech thing, I guess. You never let me have any fun,” he sulks.
“You look like shit, Thor. Go get cleaned up and see your girl. We'll keep our guest occupied until you're ready for the main event.”
I hesitate, adrenaline still coursing through my system, demanding action. “He could wake up any minute.”
“And when he does, he'll wish he hadn't.” Ratch's voice is matter-of-fact as he pulls a folding knife from his pocket, testing the edge with his thumb. “I can handle the warmup. You've done the heavy lifting. Now go. She needs to see you're in one piece.”
The mention of Charlotte drains some of the rage from my system. I glance down at myself. My clothes disheveled, knuckles raw and crusted with blood, the acrid smell of CS gas clinging to my skin. I'd scare the hell out of her looking like this.
“Fine. Twenty minutes. Don't start the real questioning without me.”
V looks up from the laptop he's setting up on the workbench. “Wouldn't dream of it, brother. This is your show.”
I take the stairs two at a time, muscles aching from the day’s violence. The house is quiet—eerily so. The kind of silence that makes your pulse feel louder than it should.
I stop outside Charlotte’s door and listen.
No movement. No sound.
I should let her sleep. She’s earned peace more than anyone I know.
But I need to see her. Just for a second.
I ease the door open, just enough to look inside.
