Get her back.
And whoever thought taking her was a smart move?
They were about to learn exactly how wrong they were.
The ride to DC barely existed in my memory.
It was just asphalt and rage muted by the roar of the engine under me, the bike eating miles like it knew time was the enemy.My hands ached from how hard I gripped the bars.My jaw stayed locked, teeth clenched so tight my head throbbed.I didn’t remember the wind.Didn’t remember stopping for gas.Didn’t remember crossing state lines.
I remembered one thing.
Nita needed me.
Tower rode at my back, close enough I could feel him even when I didn’t look.The rest of the club stayed behind in North Carolina, running phones, digging records, pulling every crooked thread they could find.Dippy’s voice still rang in my head from the call that finally broke the night open.The Upper Marlboro charter of the Saints Outlaws MC met us at the Maryland state line and escorted us into town.With a short pause at their clubhouse I touched base with Dippy getting the information I needed.
“I’ve got an address.DC suburbs.House is listed for sale.Showing last week had the listing changed to pending.Cash buyer.Shell company.It’s clean on the surface, Loco.Too clean.”
Too clean meant dirty underneath.
By the time the skyline came into view, my adrenaline had sharpened into something cold and lethal.This wasn’t panic anymore.This was hunt mode.The part of me I had tried to bury under years of badges and rules and restraint.
The house sat on a quiet street lined with winter-bare trees and tidy sidewalks.White siding.Black shutters.A realtor’s sign staked into the front lawn like a lie.
Empty.
That was what it wanted to look like.But something wasn’t right.
I killed the engine a block away.Tower did the same.With the other Saints moving in behind us but giving a wide berth.None of us wanted to spook the man holding her.We moved on foot, silent, circling the property.No cars in the driveway.No lights on.Curtains gone from the windows.
A house stripped to be shown.Or a house scrubbed to erase evidence.I pressed my palm to the front door.
Cold.
Unlocked.That was the first real sign.People lock empty houses.They don’t lock places they think no one will ever check.
We slipped inside, boots whispering against hardwood.The air was stale, tinged with bleach and dust.No furniture.No pictures.No life.
But the hum.
Low.Constant.
Basement.
I didn’t wait.I moved toward the door at the back of the house, my gun already in my hand, heart pounding so loud I was sure it would give us away.Tower took point behind me, his presence steady, lethal, trusted.
The basement door was closed.
And from the other side— A man’s voice.
Calm.Educated.Annoyingly patient.“…you’ve done excellent work, Banks.Truly.But you’ve pushed this far enough.And now you’re forcing my hand.”
My blood went ice cold.
Nita.
I took the stairs two at a time, gun raised, vision tunneling.
The basement was finished but bare—concrete walls, exposed beams, a single overhead bulb casting harsh light.She was chained to a metal post in the center of the room.Bruised.Pale.But upright.Unbroken.
