STONE
Two minutes, she said. I’m counting.
There’s a roar from the rally outside, loud enough to draw the attention of those outside and temporarily drown out the chatter around me.
I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of Duck back on the stage, doing what looks like a line dance.
Of course he is.
I turn back, resuming my counting.
At ninety seconds, the lights flicker and die. The barista swears, fumbling for her phone.
“Sorry—old wiring. Happens sometimes when the square’s pulling extra power for events?—”
But the cold is already spreading through my chest. That instinct that’s kept me alive for twenty years.
Where the fuck is Josie?
“Josie?” I call toward the hallway.
No answer.
I’m moving before the barista can finish her explanation, shoving past the counter into the dark corridor. Emergency lighting flickers on—dim red, barely enough to see by.
The bathroom door is ajar.
I push through, gun already in my hand. Empty. Three stalls, all empty, a tote bag abandoned on the wet floor.
Not Josie’s.
I kick through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door at the end of the hall, and in three strides burst into the back alley?—
Empty. Nothing but overflowing dumpsters and the distant screech of tires.
A woman is slumped against the alley wall, groaning, just coming to.
“What happened?” I crouch beside her, fighting to keep my voice steady. “There was another woman—brown hair, early forties?—”
“Men,” she mumbles, her eyes unfocused. “Men grabbed me. They grabbed her. They—” She starts crying.
My world narrows to a single, crystalline point of focus.
They took her.
They took my woman.
I let her out of my sight for less than three fucking minutes .
I hit call on my phone, and Hawk picks up instantly. “Prez? What’s?—”
“She’s gone.” The words come out strange. Hollow. “They’ve got Josie.”
“Rally the brothers.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Get everyone to the clubhouse.Now.”
“Stone—”
“NOW.”
