Page 67 of Sexting the Bikers
Reaper voices my thoughts. “What if she sold him out? Could be bait to draw us in.” He breathes through clenched teeth, thinking. The room hums with old wiring and my pulse.
“If it’s a trap,” I say, “we’ll know soon enough.”
Reaper finally straightens, coming to a decision. “Get Twitch and Rooster. Check out the hotel. If you see anything weird, you pull back and call me. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
“Copy that, Prez,” I say. I pause just before the door, looking back once more at the flickering cameras. I can’t help the feeling that tonight is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. I grab my cut, adrenaline spiking as I head out into the night, the weight of the club and the mess we’re in settling square on my shoulders.
Out in the lot, Twitch is already swinging a bat, grinning like an idiot. Rooster stands beside him, eyes darting between us and the dark sky.
“Where we headed?” Twitch asks, bouncing on his heels.
“Marriott. Bishop’s late. We’re gonna find out why.”
Rooster nods, silent and steady, the kind of backup you want when shit goes sideways.
As I throw on my vest, the nagging thoughts return. Katya’s smile, her soft laugh, the way she leaned into Bishop. Part of me hopes she is innocent. The other part loads an extra magazine, just in case.
As we climb into the truck and roll down the drive, my mind is a mess of worry, anger, and something I don’t want to name. I don’t know if we’re walking into a war or just chasing shadows, but I do know one thing—if she’s innocent, I won’t leave Katya behind, no matter what happens.
We park an unmarked van across the boulevard from the Marriott, engine off, heat bleeding through the firewall. City lights throw gold across the windshield. I sit behind the wheel, Twitch beside me with binoculars, Rooster leaning forward from the back seat, shotgun upright between his knees.
The hotel entrance glows bright in the dark. Two bellboys chat beneath the awning, but my eyes lock on three men near a black SUV at the curb. Sports coats over cheap tracksuits, hair cropped close, jawlines hard. One smokes, the other two watch everything without watching. They don’t fidget, don’t laugh, don’t belong in a seaside Marriott at midnight.
“Russians?” Rooster whispers.
“Look like it,” I murmur. “Notice the gait. Heels heavy, toes out. Ex-mil.”
Twitch adjusts the focus. “Sidearm under left jacket. All of them.”
Another pair steps from the lobby, one checking a phone, the other scanning the lot. Same vibe. They speak quietly, a few words carrying across the street—guttural, familiar consonants I heard plenty of when Novikov’s crew visited the clubhouse.
That makes five.
I glance at the side entrance. Two more shapes stand in the alley light, talking low. Seven.
Bishop and Katya are somewhere inside with that Zaika big shot.
Rooster scribbles plate numbers on a pad. Twitch tracks hotel windows, pausing on the fourth floor where one curtaintwitches and a silhouette crosses. Could be anyone. Could be Bishop. Could be our enemy lining up a shot.
My hand rests on the radio. One click and Reaper’s motorcycle crew will sweep in, but a frontal assault turns a hostage scenario into a body count. We need eyes first.
“Wait it out,” I say. “Give Bishop a chance. Five minutes.”
The Russians keep pacing, checking watches, talking into earpieces. Wind from the ocean pushes cigarette smoke across the road. I smell salt and asphalt and danger.
Five silent minutes stretch into ten, still no sign of Bishop or Katya. The Russians smoke, chat, and check their watches while my gut keeps screamingmove.
“Time’s up,” I mutter. “I’m going in.”
Rooster raises a brow. “With what plan?”
“Improv,” I say and slip from the van before either of them can argue.
Crossing the boulevard, I cut behind parked cars to the service alley. Steam from a vent rolls over me, masking my approach to the employee entrance. Inside, fluorescent lights buzz over rows of laundry carts and a rack of hotel uniforms. Perfect.
I strip off my jacket, yank on a shirt, and realize it’s two sizes too small across the chest. I look like a bouncer who lost a bet with a tailor. Whatever. I cram the vest on top, tug a nametag from a mesh basket, and stick it crooked over my pocket. It reads “Earl.” I smirk. Earl it is.
I step into the hallway and almost collide with a teenage busboy hauling room-service trays. He blinks at me, eyes wide at the sight of my stretched buttons.
