Page 65 of Emmy's Ride

My mind worked fast, piecing it together. The Ghost had connections down there.

My gut screamed at me. That’s where they were taking her.

I turned to my men. “Rally the troops. We’re going to Mexico.”

Tank grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Been a while since we had an out-of-country job.”

Diesel smirked. “Good excuse to stock up on tequila.”

I ignored them, my mind already ten steps ahead. “We move fast, and we move deadly. I don’t care what it takes—we’re bringing Emmy home. Go pack your tac gear and meet back here in thirty. Tank, call the family and get us a plane. We sure as hell can’t travel commercial with all we’ll be packing.”

And by the family, I meant exactly that. The mafia, led by none other than The Devil. Demonte. We’d had dealings with them when my VP fell in love with a fucking real-life princess, and The Devil did too. We needed a favor.

The call was short, and we had a plane at our disposal. No questions asked.

I stood in my room, packing my gear, Emmy’s scent still strong. I’d needed a second. Just one second to breathe, to be alone with my thoughts before I locked them down for good.

My hands braced on the edge of my dresser, fingers curling into the wood. My reflection stared back at me in the mirror—a man on the brink. My jaw was clenched so tight it ached. My muscles were coiled, ready to strike, but beneath it all was fear that threatened to undermine my self-control.

It clawed at my chest, wrapping around my ribs like a vise. I hadn’t let myself feel it until now. Couldn’t. But standing here, away from my men, away from the war plans, it hit me like a punch to the gut.

What if we’re too late?

I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head. No. I couldn’t think like that. But the thoughts came anyway.

What if she was already suffering? What if she was crying out for me, waiting for me, and I wasn’t there? What if?—

My fist slammed into the mirror before I could stop myself. The glass shattered, cracks spiderwebbing across the surface. Asharp pain sliced through my knuckles, blood welling from the torn skin, but I barely felt it.

My breathing was ragged, my heart pounding I dropped my forehead against the broken glass, the cool surface grounding me. I couldn’t afford this. I couldn’t afford weakness, couldn’t afford doubt.

Emmy was out there, and she needed me.

Taking a deep breath, I let the pain from my knuckles center me. Let it remind me of who the hell I was. I wasn’t some scared man second-guessing himself.

I was Austin fucking King, President of the Kings of Chaos.

And Emmy was mine.

My head lifted, eyes locking on to my reflection. My own gaze stared back at me, dark and filled with nothing but rage. Determination. A promise.

We would find her. And when we did, The Ghost would pray for death before I was done with him.

Turning on my heel, I grabbed my gun, checked the magazine, and stormed out of the room.

Time for war.

Emmy

Pain throbbed in my skull, dragging me from the depths of unconsciousness. My body felt heavy, sluggish, like I was wading through thick fog. As my senses slowly returned, so did the memories—the club, Riot, the shortcut, the rough hands, the bag over my head. Then darkness.

My stomach lurched as the world swayed beneath me. My eyelids fluttered open, and the interior of a private plane came into focus. The hum of the engines filled the cabin.

Panic jolted through me, adrenaline cutting through the daze. I tried to move but realized my wrists were now bound in front of me with zip ties.

A mocking chuckle made my flesh break out in goosebumps. I turned my head and saw him.

The man from the warehouse. The one with the scar. He’d stood in the background with a leer on his face while The Ghost touched me. He had to be The Ghost’s second-in-command.

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