I get why he’s not taking this well.
A: I’m not his boss so I shouldn’t call the shots.
B: He probably hopes Vaughn is there. He hopes the man will accidentally offer him a compelling reason to put a bullet in his elbows.
He’d love to cripple Vaughn further since he can’t kill him. A bullet between the eyes is out of the question, but Broadway could exact his revenge on Vaughn by making his life infinitely worse than it already is.
It must be hard running from his past while being wheelchair bound. How much harder would it be if he couldn’t use his arms?
Fucking impossible.
“What’s going on?” Koby asks, glancing between me and the blonde he won’t touch tonight.
I restart one of the clips, pressplay,and pass him the phone so he’s in the loop. Three seconds go by before a deep “Fuck” leaves his mouth, his posture changing into the battle-ready mode he assumes whenever we move out.
We’re only supposed to catch Bianca before Octavius or Blaze can get their filthy hands on her again, but we should be ready in case the fuse burns down to the dynamite.
After all, this might be a trap
Vaughn’s mind is as dangerous as when he had full use of his legs. I can’t rule out a big ruse.
Bianca’s kept her head down for weeks, or else we would’ve found her sooner. And now she’s boldly staring into the camera, wanting to be found...
I don’t like this.
8
Ryder
Ipace outsideScarlett, eyes on my phone, fingers tapping away. Another clip pinged thirty seconds ago, showing Bianca at a bus station in Dayton. I’m searching for the best angle on the footage, trying to pinpoint what bus she took.
Knowing where she’s heading will save me and Koby a trip. We’ll skip asking cashiers and we’ll go straight to targeting the surveillance systems at every station along the line.
Fuck. I grip the base of my neck, digging my fingertips deep into the flesh. In times like this, when Koby’s taking way too long to take a leak, I wish I was smoking.
I could use a cigarette right about now. It’d calm my nerves. A cigarette or a glass of bubbly. Either would do.
“You alright, Ryder?” the bouncer at the door asks, watching me pace back and forth. “Something happening?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” I spit out, shoving the useless phone into my back pocket.
No matter how much I zoom in, I can’t tell where the bus Bianca took is heading. The surveillance system at the station is ancient, the picture quality far from acceptable.
I crack my neck left and right, ignoring the noise pressing in on me from all sides. The partygoers outsideScarlettare gathering en masse, mostly loud, rowdy teens. It’s midnight already. Everyone knows the real party starts around now when girls are the perfect level of drunk and willing, and the best DJ comes on for his three-hour-long set.
A cab stops by the curb, dropping off another wave of barely legal babes at the door.
At least that’s what I assume, having seen it one too many times, but when the back door flings open, it’s one girl. Alone. Not glammed up for the club.
Gray jeans cling like a second skin over her hips and legs, ending right above her ankles. White sneakers match the t-shirt she’s wearing under a black cardigan that reaches below her ass, her dark hair in a messy bun, eyes rimmed bright pink in contrast with the puffy bruises below. Bruises that scream of sleep deprivation.
I’m glued to the spot, staring at the girl I’ve been hunting for over two months. The pictures I found online don’t do her justice. She’s pretty in them. If she weren’t, I wouldn’t flick through them daily, memorizing everything about her.
Yeah, pretty, but not breathtaking. Not in the pictures.
Now, standing fifteen feet away, she’s gorgeous in this heart-wrenching, broken sort of way that punches the air out of my lungs. Not even the ashen tint to her skin or the hint of freshly wiped tears take away from how gorgeous she is. They add to it, just like that unguarded softness. The kind that stirs a feral darkness beneath my skin.
Keep her safe.
