Page 86 of Wings
"Remember," I said, though everyone already knew the plan backward. "She draws them to the front, creates noise and chaos. I slip in the back, make the switch while they're distracted. Quick and clean."
"And if it goes sideways?" Tank asked, hand drifting toward the Glock tucked beside his seat.
"It won't."
It couldn't.
Not with Kiara in the line of fire.
Through the window, I watched Alex emerge from the cash room, envelope in hand. He'd count it three times—always did, even back when he was just dealing weed in high school. Then he'd log the numbers in his phone, take photos for thedigital trail, and head to the Serpents clubhouse to kick up his percentage. Minus whatever he'd skimmed, of course.
"One minute," Thor reported. "Phoenix approaching on foot."
My hand found the door handle, ready to move.
Somewhere out there in the darkness, my girl was walking toward danger with nothing but attitude and smudged mascara for armor. Playing bait because she was too brave to let us handle it without her insider knowledge. Because she'd rather risk herself than risk the plan failing.
I'd never loved her more. Never been more terrified.
"Thirty seconds," Thor said.
Time to move.
Kiara's voice sliced through the night air at 2:03 AM, sharp enough to cut glass. "I know he's here! I saw his bike!" Even from the alley, muffled by brick and distance, I could hear the perfect calibration of it—drunk but not sloppy, desperate but not dangerous. “This is where he always used to come! I know you’re here, Alex Moreno!”
My hand was already on the van's handle when the prospects' laughter crackled through my earpiece. Deep, dismissive male laughter at the pathetic ex-girlfriend making a scene. Exactly the reaction we'd wanted, but my jaw clenched hard enough to crack molars.
"Moving," I whispered into the mic, slipping out of the van with practiced silence.
The alley stretched dark and empty, broken glass crunching under my boots no matter how carefully I placed each step. Twenty yards to the back door, each one feeling like a mile with Kiara's raised voice echoing off the buildings. Through the earpiece, I caught fragments—the prospects telling her to get lost, her slurred insistence that she needed to see Alex.
Then his voice, sharp as a blade: "What the fuck is she doing here?" I heard the panic in his voice. He’d been taunting Kiarafor weeks, watching her, sending her creepy messages. Clearly, her appearing here like this wasnotpart of the plan.
The back door loomed before me, exactly as Kiara had described. Peeling red paint, rust eating through the bottom corner, looking locked from the outside but she'd promised—lift and push simultaneously. My hands found the handle, executed the movement she'd walked me through a dozen times. The door gave way with barely a whisper, revealing darkness cut by strips of fluorescent light.
I slipped inside, senses cataloging everything instantly. Motor oil and rust, the universal perfume of body shops. Tool benches creating perfect shadows, their surfaces cluttered with parts and rags. The concrete floor painted with years of stains, paths worn smooth by work boots. Through the doorway to the main bay, harsh light and movement.
"Please, Alex, I just need to talk to you. Five minutes." Kiara's voice carried perfectly, just like she'd said it would—the acoustics in the main bay amplifying everything. "I’ve been getting your sweet gifts. I know I fucked up, but—"
I moved along the wall, using a transmission hoist for cover, edging closer to where I could see the confrontation. My first clear view of her hit like a physical blow. She'd transformed herself into someone else—mascara strategically smudged, hair messy but not wild, clothes just disheveled enough to sell the story. But it was the performance that stole my breath. The slight sway on her feet, the way she kept reaching out toward nothing like she needed support.
One prospect—tall, beard, Serpent patches still stiff with newness—moved to grab her arm. My hand found my knife without conscious thought, but Kiara was already moving. She stumbled sideways, the drunk act flawless, avoiding his grip while moving deeper into the shop.
"Don't fucking touch me!" Real heat in her voice now, then shifting back to pleading. "Alex, honey-bunch, tell them!"
Beautiful chaos.
Both prospects laughed at the sound her calling him honey-bunch. They were focused entirely on her, trying to corral without actually touching, unsure how their lieutenant would react. And Alex—Christ, seeing him clearly under the lights was worse than through the van window. My brother had become a skeleton wrapped in leather, all sharp angles and twitching paranoia. But he was moving exactly where we needed him, drawn out of the cash room by the need to control.
"Get her out of here," he snarled at his prospects, but his feet carried him closer to Kiara, not away.
I shifted position, sliding behind a workbench loaded with engine parts. The angle put me eight feet from where Alex stood, his back to me, that phone chain glinting under the lights like a target. Close enough to hear his breathing, see the tension in his shoulders. My little brother, who I'd taught to ride a bike, who'd covered for me when I snuck out to fly lessons.
Kiara pushed forward, stumbling past the first prospect with a grace disguised as clumsiness. "You can't just ignore me! Three years, Alex. Three fucking years and you—"
"Shut up." Alex's voice cracked with something that might have been emotion if I believed he still had any. "Why are you here? How did you find out about this? You don't get to—"
"To what?" She was close to him now, close enough that I could see his hands clench and unclench. "To care? To want closure? You owe me that much."
