I want to scream. I want to claw Riot’s eyes out. Dante was right. And I didn’t want to hear it. I let this happen.
Quinn steadies me with a look. “Kat, you’ve seen more basements and backrooms than any of us. What stands out?”
I drag the phone closer, scanning the picture again. The wall behind Devyn isn’t just concrete, it’s painted halfway up in a sick industrial green. A rust-stained conduit pipe droops across the ceiling where the bulb dangles, its light pooling weak across the floor. In the corner, a water pan tipped sideways, dried blood flaking in its rim.
LC’s sharp inhale cuts me off. Diesel shifts at her feet, growling, picking up her tension. She kneels, smoothing his head once, then points at the photo. Her voice shakes with fury.
“Not a warehouse,” she mutters. “That’s the damn kennel.”
My chest locks tight.
LC’s eyes flash to Quinn. “Remember the dog fighting ring we took down last year? Where I rescued Diesel?” She stabs her finger at the chain-link in the background. “That’s it. Same paint. Same cages.”
Memory hits hard, the stink of blood and wet fur, the sound of snarls echoing in those cages, the rage in LC’s face as she carried Diesel out broken and shaking.
“Makes sense. Riot would know it.” I say, my voice clipped, my fists clenched at my sides.
Quinn’s jaw sets. “Then that’s where we go.”
No hesitation. No vote. Just fact.
“Ten minutes,” Quinn snaps. “Gather what you need.”
The order cracks through the air like a gunshot. Everyone scatters at once, boots hammering the floor, doors slamming open, voices low and clipped.
I push through the ache in my ribs and make it upstairs. My room feels smaller than it should, the air heavy with Dante’s scent still lingering. I strip fast, ignoring the pull at my stitches, ignoring the way my breath hitches sharp in my chest. Jeans, black tee, boots laced tight. My cut settles over my shoulders like a second skin. I shove extra mags into my pockets, slide a knife into my boot, and don’t let myself think. There’s no time for it.
By the time I get back to the common room the place is a storm. Guns snap shut as rounds chamber, knives scrape against leather as they slide home in sheaths. Meadow’s at the bar, strapping a pistol to her thigh. Silk knots her hair up and tapes her wrists like she’s stepping into the ring. Scarlet Rose lines blades across the table, choosing with surgical precision before she tucks two into her belt. Vex shoulders a shotgun, the pump racking loud enough to cut through the chaos.
The brick walls echo with every sound of metal on metal, boots on wood, the murmur of vows muttered under breath.Mama Ru hovers near the bar, her hands tight around a rag she keeps wringing. A single tear streaks her cheek. “God protect my girls,” she prays to herself, “bring them all home safe.”
Quinn stands in the middle of it all, her cut squared across her shoulders, her bat leaning against her boot. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. She’s gravity, pulling every one of us into place. LC steps up beside her, the knives on hips glinting, her jaw clenched tight.
One by one, we file out of the Clubhouse toward our bikes. Engines roar to life in unison, the ground trembling under the weight of our fury.
Quinn takes point. LC moves in beside her. I fall in at her flank, my ribs screaming, but my hands steady. The rest of the Harlots fall into formation, headlights blazing as we peel out together.
We leave the clubhouse behind, the night swallowing us whole.
The ride to the kennel is brutal. The city blurs around us in streaks of light, the air cold and sharp off the Atlantic. My ribs protest every turn, every jolt, but I ride harder, the roar of my engine drowning out the screaming in my chest. Each passing block feels like one less chance to get to Devyn alive.
By the time the sagging shape of the kennel rises into view, my palms ache from gripping the bars. The place sits half-sunk into a lot choked with weeds and a half-collapsed chain-link fence, the old sign forChampion Kennelsstill clinging by one rusted bracket. Most of the roof has caved in. Corrugated siding flakes with rust, the edges curling like peeling skin. The stink hits even from the street, piss, mildew, the scent of blood that can never be washed out.
It’s not just another building. We put this place down once. I still remember the night. The barking was so loud it rattled my skull, the metallic clang of chains snapping, the copper stench ofblood smeared across concrete. Meadow tore a padlock off with bolt cutters while the rest of us hauled half-starved dogs out of cages. Their ribs jutted sharp as knives, their eyes too tired to hope. One of them was Diesel.
Even now, I glance sideways at LC. Her jaw is locked, her eyes hard, but I see the memory of that night hitting her. I know she’s picturing the same thing I am, Diesel’s shaking body in that cage, the way his tail thumped weakly against the bars when she scooped him up. He made it out. Not all of them did.
We cut engines a block out. The silence is broken only by the drip of water from a busted gutter and the hum of traffic. Quinn signals us into position, her hand precise, steady. LC peels left with Orchid and Rogue. Scarlet Rose, and Silk fan out toward the back, covering the collapsed fencing. The rest tighten the perimeter, posted at every blind corner.
Some of the windows are busted out, others boarded up. A single bulb flickers above the front door, casting more shadow than light.
Quinn glances back at me, her eyes sharp. “Kat, you’re with me.”
I nod once, my throat too tight for words.
Meadow shoulders the crowbar. The doorframe splinters under the first hit, the sound echoing down the empty lot like a gunshot. The second hit tears it free. The door creaks open, groaning like the building doesn’t want us inside.
The smell is even stronger inside. Rows of rusted cages line the perimeter, their bars bent, doors hanging loose, stains still smeared in the corners. Chains drag across the concrete in the draft, clinking like ghosts. My stomach twists. The echoes of snarling, of yelps, and bets being placed still feel embedded in the walls.
