“Charlotte!” I call again. “V!”
The basement light flickers overhead, casting erratic shadows across the carnage below, leftover from Vincent. I scan the room frantically, looking for any sign of Charlotte or V. Then I see it. In the center of the basement floor, lying in a fresh pool of congealing blood, a clump of light brown hair. Charlotte's hair, torn from her scalp with such violence it still has skin attached to the roots.
My knees hit the concrete before I realize I'm falling. I reach for it with trembling fingers, the strands soft and familiar between my calloused hands. I bring it to my face, inhaling her scent—strawberries and cream, now tainted with blood.
“Thor, we need to call Raze. We need to get the club here.”
“The club is four fucking hours away,” I snarl, clutching Charlotte's bloody hair in my fist. “By the time they get here, she'll be halfway to God knows where. We don't even know if she's still alive.”
The thought sends ice through my veins. I can't picture her dead. Won't. The alternative—what Terrance plans to do with her—is almost worse.
“V could still be alive,” Ratchet says, scanning the basement. “There's not enough blood up there for a kill shot.”
I force myself to my feet, tucking Charlotte's hair into my pocket. Every muscle in my body screams for violence, for retribution, but there's no one here to hurt. Just ghosts and blood and the lingering scent of her fear.
“We need to find them now.”
“How?” Ratchet asks, practical as always. “Vegas is a big fucking city, brother. Terrance could have her anywhere.”
I pace the basement, forcing my brain to work past the red haze of fury. “Ace said Terrance is planning to transport her. That means he's keeping her somewhere temporary.”
“Hotels? Warehouses? We can't search the whole fucking city. We need help. We need the club,” Ratchet says, already pulling out his phone.
I want to argue, to rage against wasting precious minutes, but I force myself to breathe. My hands won't stop shaking.
Ratchet puts the call on speaker. It rings twice before Raze's gruff voice fills the basement.
“Vegas chapter's gone rogue. They've taken Thor's woman. V's down, possibly dead. We need every patched member on bikes heading this way now.”
A string of curses explodes through the speaker, “How bad?”
“Nuclear,” Ratchet answers, watching me pace like a caged animal. “The girl's ex-husband is working with Ace. Human trafficking. They're planning to move her soon.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I hear Raze shouting orders in the background, the familiar sounds of men mobilizing for war. “We're rolling in twenty. Four hours, tops.”
“We can’t wait that long,” I growl, finally grabbing the phone. “You understand what's happening to her right now? What he's doing to her while we stand here with our dicks in our hands?”
“I understand, but rushing in half-cocked gets you both killed and doesn't help V or your girl.”
“Fuck your strategy,” I snarl. “Every second we waste is another second he's?—”
“You think I don't know what you're going through? You think I haven't been where you are right now? You want to save her? Then you use your fucking head. Go in smart, not stupid. That's how you get her back alive.”
He's right, and I hate him for it. But Charlotte needs the road captain, not the lovesick fool.
“Do what you can to track them, and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
The line goes dead.
“What about the tech? V had surveillance set up. Cameras.”
My head snaps up. “The cloud.”
“What?”
“V always backs up to the cloud. Paranoid bastard never keeps anything on just one device.” I'm already moving, taking the stairs two at a time. “His laptop's destroyed, but if we can access his account from another device?—”
“My phone,” Ratchet says, following close behind. “I've got his emergency login.”
