Page 29 of Her Possessive Biker
I gesture toward the nearby alley. “Saw fresh tire marks. Black van. Same kind from the trail. Patch-Eye used to drive one just like it when he ran for Dogwood MC.”
My pulse slams.
“This was for the debt,” I say through my teeth.
Deadeye nods. “They want to sell her to the highest bidder.”
“They took her because of me. I should’ve protected her.”
“No,” he says, eyes hard. “They took her because they’re dead men walking and they don’t know it yet.”
I stare down at her backpack again.
This was supposed to be a safe place.
I swore I’d protect her.
And I failed.
“Call Diesel,” I bark. “Get him back here.”
“Already did.”
I look around, brain firing fast now. “They wouldn’t go far with her. Not in broad daylight. They’ll hole up until nightfall.”
Deadeye jerks his chin toward the west ridge. “There’s that old hunting cabin off Sycamore Hollow.”
“Too obvious.”
“The old freight depot?”
“Burned down last year.”
Diesel rolls up then. “A contact got eyes on a black van heading west on Claymore Road.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten minutes, maybe twelve.”
I spin toward the bikes. “Let’s ride.”
They follow me without a word.
We find the van parked outside a rusted-out shack a few miles out. The place looks like it hasn’t seen light in a decade. But there’s a fresh lock on the door and boot prints in the dirt.
Cassie’s boot prints.
Deadeye pulls his knife. Diesel checks the mag on his sidearm.
I don’t say anything. I’m already moving.
I slam the door in with one boot. The shack groans under the force. Inside, it’s dark. Damp. Smells like piss and mold and stale cigarettes.
And then I hear her.
A soft sound. Not a scream. Not a word.
A whimper.
