Angel:Be safe today.
Worried about me?
Angel:Always.
Good. Means you care. Means you're already mine.
Angel:Still not yours, Diablo.
We'll see about that, Angel.
I start my bike, the rumble echoing through the garage. Time to find a van with identity issues. Time to find an angel who commits fraud to commit healthcare. Time to discover if my worst suspicions are right—that the woman I'm claiming is the same one my club wants to protect and her brother's club would kill me for touching.
The thought should stop me.
Instead, I drive faster.
Because some things are worth burning for, and my angel's already got me in flames.
My VP found your van. The one with the fake electric company signs. You the Ghost Clinic angel?
I send it before I can think better, before I can strategize the right approach.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then nothing.
Radio silence.
She knows I know. And now everything changes.
Chapter fifteen
Emergency Collision
Lena
Seven bodies bleeding out, and I was sexting while saving them.
The warehouse on South Mountain looks like a war zone had a baby with a crime scene. Blood pools reflect the emergency lights like abstract art nobody asked for, and I'm triaging gunshot wounds while my phone vibrates against my hip with messages from someone who'd probably contributed to scenes exactly like this.
"Two more coming in!" someone shouts—not sure who, everyone looks the same when they're covered in other people's blood.
My hands work on autopilot, pressure here, tourniquet there, while my brain processes the disaster. Deal gone wrong, both MCs involved, enough testosterone and bullets to redecorate the warehouse in Early American Violence. I don't ask who shot who. Don't care. Blood doesn't wear colors.
Bad Decision:Where are you?
I ignore it, focusing on the kid in front of me—because he is a kid, maybe nineteen, Coyote Fangs prospect patch barely visible under the blood. Gut shot, bad angle, probably hit the liver.
"This hurts," he whimpers.
"I know, baby. I'm gonna help." I work faster, packing the wound while calculating his chances. "What's your name?"
"Torch."
Torch. The same Torch who's been following me on Miguel's orders. Small fucking world getting smaller by the bullet.
My phone buzzes again.
