I blink once. “Who?”
“Marisol.”
Dog’s already dialing Saint, but I don’t move. The bottle in my hand is sweating against my palm, forgotten. I stare at thecracked asphalt like I might find her footprints there. I don’t. All I see is red.
I slowly straighten. “What the hell do you mean, gone?”
“She didn’t come to the garage after school, so I went to her house. Her brother says she texted that she was stopping by The Den to get fries. That was the last anyone heard from her.”
Cold wraps around my spine like barbed wire. The Den. That place is a cesspool. Full of traffickers, junkies, and low-level dealers with cartel ties. Rage flares fast in my chest. No time for disbelief. No space for panic.
“She wouldn’t just disappear,” I say.
“I know,” Dog says grimly. “I already called Saint.”
Church isn’t a room, yet. It’s in Dog’s garage until we find a Clubhouse. The lights are off, six folding chairs, and a map pinned to the wall.
Saint slaps a grainy photo down on the workbench. “That’s Flaco. Works for the Sangres. Mostly girls and meth. My guy says he’s been sniffing around the trailer parks lately.”
“Flaco’s scum,” Bookie mutters. “Uses kids as payment. Dumps 'em in Saginaw or Detroit once he’s through.”
Saint’s voice tightens. “Word is, he took Marisol. Has her in a trailer behind The Den. We’ve got one shot before she’s moved across state lines.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Electric.
I look around the room. These men, my brothers, aren’t trained for this. Not like I am. But they don’t hesitate. Their eyes burn like mine.
“This isn’t club business,” I say. “This is family.”
Dog’s jaw clenches. “You lead. We follow.”
We ride out under a black sky, no colors. No fanfare. Just engines purring low like the growl before a kill.
Saint’s got his crowbar. Dog’s carrying brass knuckles, reinforced. Danny packed a sawed-off. I’ve got my fists and my fury. That’s all I need.
This isn’t about stripes or territory.
This is about a girl who made us laugh. Who reminded us what we were fighting for when the world went quiet.
The trailer sits behind The Den like a cancerous growth, rust-eaten and stinking of piss and cheap tequila. A single bulb flickers above the door like it’s daring us to come closer.
Saint cuts the lights from the power pole, surgical and clean. Danny moves fast, yanking the backup generator's fuel line and hosing it with gasoline. Smoke tosses a Molotov into a dumpster in the alley. It lights up like a beacon. Chaos begins.
And that’s when I move. I slam my boot into the door. The lock shatters with a scream of metal.
Inside, it reeks of sweat, smoke, and something sour. My stomach churns.
Dog barrels in beside me, all fury and force. The first guy at the table barely looks up from his plate of wings before Dog’s knuckles cave in his jaw. Bone cracks. Teeth clatter across the linoleum.
The second thug scrambles, reaching under the couch for a pistol. Saint's on him before he clears the cushion. One swing of that crowbar and the bastard’s nose erupts in blood, cartilage snapping sideways as he crumples with a wet groan.
A third tries to run. Danny shoulders into him, pins him to the stove, and dislocates his arm with a wrenching twist. The guy screams, but none of us care.
I hear it. Soft, rapid breaths coming from the back.
I reach the end of the hallway to the bathroom on my left and the master bedroom in front of me. I try the door and it’s locked. I check the master bedroom, and it’s empty.
“Clear!” I bark at the others.
