My heart hammers against my ribs as I wait, every second stretching into eternity.
“Got him,” she says finally. “Looks like he's at...that's weird.”
“What?” I ask, too quickly.
“His signal is at a warehouse by the airport,” Presley says. “But that doesn't make sense—there's no convention center anywhere near there.”
“Probably some underground nerd gathering. You know how he is about exclusive merch.”
“I guess,” she says, doubt creeping into her tone. “It's just...strange. The signal's been stationary for almost forty minutes. Usually when he's at these things, he's bouncing all over the place.”
“What's the address?” I ask, motioning for Ratchet to grab a pen.
She rattles off coordinates that Ratchet scribbles on his forearm. “Should I be worried?” Presley asks suddenly, maternal instinct breaking through. “It's not like him to ignore calls when it’s someone from the club.”
“Nah,” I lie smoothly. “His phone probably died. You know how he forgets to charge it when he's excited about something. I'll swing by and drag his ass home.”
“Thanks, Thor. Please find him before he spends all of his money on more toys. We barely have room for what he has now.”
I force a chuckle. “Will do.”
The moment I end the call, my facade crumbles. “Warehouse district. North Vegas. Let's move.”
“We should wait for backup,” Ratchet says, though his body language tells me he's already decided to follow me into hell.
“We don't know what we're walking into,” I finish for him, already heading for the van. “And I don't give a fuck. Every minute we wait is another minute he's?—”
I can't finish the sentence. Can't let my mind go there, or I'll lose what's left of my sanity.
“Wait,” Ratchet says, grabbing my arm before I can reach the door. “What about this place?”
I pause, looking around at the bullet-riddled walls, the blood-soaked floorboards, the wreckage of our temporary safe house. Evidence of our failure surrounds us like a shroud.
“Burn it,” I say without hesitation. “We're lucky the cops haven't shown up already with all this gunfire. Can't leave anything behind.”
Ratchet's face splits into that feral grin I've seen a thousand times before—the one that means something's about to meet its fiery end. “Music to my ears. I'll grab what I need from the van. Don’t forget to change your clothes.”
He's out the door before I can respond, already moving with purpose. Ratchet's always been most alive when destruction is on the menu.
I take the stairs two at a time, forcing myself into the bedroom Charlotte and I shared just hours ago. Her scent still lingers. I allow myself three seconds to remember her body against mine, her breath on my neck, her fingers tracing the tattoos across my chest.
Then I shut it down. Lock it away. Sentiment won't save her. Action will.
I grab my duffel, stripping down and redressing as fast as I can, and grab her suitcase, still neatly packed from when we left to dump Vincent. I move to the living room, making quick work of V’s laptop and phone, stuffing them into my bag. I'm about to head out when I spot something colorful peeking out from under the couch—V's Nintendo Switch, screen cracked and case partially melted from a stray bullet. I snatch it up, shoving it into my duffel. Another piece of my brother to carry with me. Another reminder of what Terrance has taken.
Ratchet shoulders past me, arms loaded with plastic jugs sloshing with accelerants. The smell of gasoline fills the air, sharp and chemical.
“Five minutes,” he grunts, already unscrewing caps. “Then this place becomes Vegas's newest tourist attraction.”
I nod, moving methodically through the house. V was paranoid—always had been—which means there are cameras hidden in every corner. I reach up to the smoke detector in the hallway, popping it open to reveal the tiny lens inside. Another behind a picture frame. One disguised as a power outlet. Itake them all, tucking each into my pocket. Can't leave digital breadcrumbs for anyone to follow.
“Grab the camera from downstairs,” I bellow to Ratchet.
A few seconds later, he jogs back up the stairs, grabbing me by the arm as he passes. “Time to go. This place is about to become the world's biggest Molotov cocktail!”
We run to the van and peel out of the driveway.
Ratchet's handiwork is flawless—the fire spreads fast and hot, consuming evidence and memories alike. In the rearview mirror, I watch our temporary sanctuary become a funeral pyre.
