"Use mine, I'll drive," I say, pulling mine from my pocket, the ‘searching for signal’ message illuminating the top corner as the jet starts to brake.
Rocco has the phone pressed to his ear as we disembark, barking orders to our men as we hurry to my Escalade. Sliding into the driver seat, I buckle my seat belt and crank the engine to life. The tires squeal against the pavement as I mash the gas pedal to the floor and peel away from the hangar. Nothing can get me to Wren fast enough, but I’ll damn sure try. I just need to see her, to know she’s okay.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I maneuver through the streets, taking any shortcut I can find to cut down the thirty-minute drive.
"Dallas and Rhodes are on their way. O'Ryan’s there too; said he'll meet us at the barricade."
"Good. Any word from my dad or Wren?" I ask, flexing my fingers on the steering wheel.
"You've got a voicemail from Wren, still trying your dad."
It's not as good as seeing her, but it offers a temporary relief from the pressure in my chest. My knuckles whiten when I whip the Escalade down a side street toward my parent's neighborhood and I can see the smoke billowing up.
"Christ," Rocco mutters as I turn down their street.
No, it can't be.
My throat constricts, stomach twisting painfully as I see just what house the firetrucks and police cruisers are in front of. Shifting the SUV into park, I rip off my seat belt and throw open the door. My feet pound the concrete as I storm towards the closed-off scene. "Where is she?"
O'Ryan's head snaps in my direction. He starts toward me, a worried look etched in his features.
"What happened?" I demand.
"Bowie, I need you to take a breath."
"Fuck off, Doyle," I spit. "Where's Wren? Where are my parents?"
He presses a hand to my chest, lowering his voice and tipping his head. "Let's talk over there."
The muscle in my jaw tightens as Rocco and I follow him away from the crowd gathered in the street. He stops by the hood of his sedan, lips pressing into a thin line as he eyes us both warily. Rocco taps my shoulder, hooking a thumb behind him and turning to where Dallas' Range Rover is pulling up.
"I swear Doyle, if you don't start fucking talking-"
He scrubs a hand down his face. "A delivery truck drove into the front of your parent's house. It was rigged to explode on impact. Luckily, whoever wired it didn't know what they were doing. It only partially went off. Damage is mainly to the front of the house and the garage. Crew’s still trying to get in there.” Shifting on his feet, he lets out a sigh. “I hate to ask this, but do you know anyone who would want to do this?"
What a stupid question.
Being head of an outfit, you're bound to make some enemies along the way. My father made his in his day, and I've made a few of my own since taking the mantle. They always get dealt with though, they either fall in line or from the face of the Earth. The chatter amongst the smaller families has been dying down, but news of Wren’s pregnancy is quickly making its way through the chains of gossip. Sure, some families might bitch and moan from time to time, but none would ever do something like this. I can't think of any lowlife stupid enough to go for my family's home, except… fucking Belluci.
"Bowie," Rocco drawls, pacing toward us, lowering my phone from his ear. "You have to listen to this."
O'Ryan shoots me a nervous glance. "I'll check in with the crews again and see if they've found anything." I know what he means, but I refuse to give more thought to his words as I watch him dip beneath the yellow crime scene tape and disappear behind a firetruck.
I card a hand through my hair, turning toward Rocco as he holds out my phone. Taking it from him, I see Wren's name on the screen with a voicemail queued up. The fallacy of relief I first felt from the voicemail is long gone, my stomach knotting as I hit play and switch it to speakerphone.
Static and a few loud noises akin to slamming doors fill the line like it was a pocket dial instead of a purposeful call. I grind my molars, eyeing him with discontent as it continues on the same. Just as I'm about to ask what the fucking point of this is, a male voice asks, "Where are we taking her?"
"There's a warehouse off Root Street in Canaryville, back by the tracks." The unmistakable and arrogant lilt of Belluci answers the first guy.
My fingers curl around the phone with crushing force as the knot in my stomach binds tighter, driving the air from my lungs as he continues.
"Bowie may have evened the field with the warehouse, but he had no right to go for my girls. You take what's mine, I'll take what's yours."
31
The pounding in my head rivals a jackhammer as I roll to my side. The cold and hard grit of a cement floor greets my skin instead of the carpet of the trunk. I don't remember falling asleep, but with the way the back of my skull throbs in pain, it's a safe guess I passed out on the drive here.
Working my eyes open, I squint into the dimly lit space trying to figure out where here even is. Wooden pallets are haphazardly stacked against a wall of peeling paint and rusty metal barrels lay on their sides across the cracked concrete, littered with shattered bottles and broken crates. Pale moonlight casts through the dingy glass and open slats of partially broken and boarded-up windows.