I lift my head slowly, letting the fury settle into something clean.
“We find her,” I say.“Alive or dead.We bring her home.”
Legend nods once.
“And the man who took her,” I add, voice low and final.
Whiskey looks up.“Yeah.What about him?What if it’s the Reverend?”
I meet his eyes.
“We bury him.”
Legend agrees with a jut of his chin.“She was taken from the Fire Pit.Neutral ground, but not really.Everyone knows the bar’s actually Kings’ territory.Might have a traitor again.”He’s thinking of what just happened with Critter.“Before we ride, I want Hell turned upside down.”
The club’s basement feels too heavy, tonight, too still, like dust is holding its breath.I grip my phone, using the flashlight and take the steps slow, boots landing soft on old concrete.The Kings used to use this place for storage before we cleaned it out.Now it smells like mildew and rust and something sharper underneath.
Not blood.
Not exactly.
But close enough to make my skin prickle.
The beam slides over the far wall, catching the faint grooves just above where the foundation dips near the pipes.
Not the symbol I thought I saw the first time.
No.These are tally marks.
Hundreds of them.Left over from the days this place was a cell.
Carved deep, carved shallow.Some straight.Some jagged like whoever made them couldn’t see what they were slicing at.Some slashed into the stone with such force that dust still clings to the edges.
A few have brown stains baked into the grooves.Old blood.Too old to test.Too deliberate to ignore.
The light glides lower and catches on something else.A handprint.Full palm.Pressed into grime.
But it’s stretched, longer than it should be.
Like the fingers dragged.
Human?
Probably.
But something about the shape twists in my gut.Like someone tried to make their hand look like something else.Or like their hand wasn’t theirs to begin with.
A chill creeps under my hoodie.I force it back.I crouch deeper and lift the beam toward the utility pipes.That’s when I see it, caught on the jagged lip of the metal.A scrap of black fabric.
I tug it free.
Thick.Textured.Old stitching, not the kind we use on cuts, not denim, not modern.Almost leathery.
I bring it close to my nose.
Incense.
Church incense.
