Page 71 of Throttle

“Get in line,” Brass whines. “He’s… is this actual oak?” He touches the wood in admiration.

“Oh, yeah. Had it put in myself. I know a guy who—”

“Can we focus here?” I demand.

Bullet coughs. “Right. Anyway, was this your idea?” he asks Brass, who’s standing there like a toddler in trouble.

“Seriously? Hell, no, but have you seen this woman angry with determination? It’s scary, man. Besides, she came here on her own.”

As Bullet raises an eyebrow, I can't help but smile.

“Damn. Fine. Give me your phone.” He takes it, plugging in an address I’m unfamiliar with.

“And you guys let him go alone?” I shoot a firm glance toward Bullet. He’s the Vice, so the blames on him.

“Tank is up there with him, in case anything should… fuck, never mind.” Bullet stops himself.

Throttle would prefer to handle this solo. Act independently and make sure no one gets hurt. And this sounded more dangerous by the second.

“Anything should what? What’s he doing at this place, Bullet?” I demand.

He holds onto the door, with a bow of his head in defeat. “There is a possibility that this warehouse is associated with a trafficking operation. Your boy is there to plant a tracker on the van.” His words sink in as I stare. “That’s why you need to stay the hell away from there. It’s dangerous and you could get hurt.”

I heard enough.

What will I even be able to do? But if Throttle gets into trouble, I have to be there.

I quickly turn and dash to my car, then speed toward the warehouse. Bullet and Brass call my name, but I’m unbothered. Thinking the worst is crippling.

I tear through the streets, the sound of a motorcycle close behind. At least Brass will be there. The more back up, the better. I realize that I'm being stupid by doing this.

So be it.

Throttle

I'm realizing that this was a dumb and idiotic decision. The first challenge was attaching the tracker to the van, which felt like a mission impossible that I was too confident about. The building had men coming and going at some point. Today, of all days, the foot traffic here was more. What was the reason for not devising a better plan?

If I don't make it through tonight, Tequila will never find out that with a mere look, she turns my world upside down. Her hair, her body, her smile, that infectious scent of hers. It makes me mad. How much she means to me—how much the other night meant. She’s the only woman I give a shit about over my damn life.

Fuck.

The opportune moment has arrived as the two guys shut the van doors and return inside.

If I'm able to succeed, we’ll learn their next moves. Sounds like a good idea in theory, but nothing has worked out for us yet and my healing ribs can attest to that.

While going down the hill, I snag my boot on uneven ground, but successfully avoid a face plant. Wearing black jeans and a hoodie, and with no lights to illuminate the area, it's easier to be sneaky.

I stay close to a tree, keeping my back against it, just ten feet from the van. When silence surrounds me, I persist in approaching the vehicle.

Don’t mess up.

I maneuver around the all-white van, briefly pausing, then sliding beneath the rusted underside. Grabbing the tracker from my pocket, I weigh my options where the fuck this thing should go.

I decide to stick it underneath by the back bumper. Got it.

There are only a few things that make me tick, but being trapped under here makes my heart race. In a rush, I shimmy to break free, desperate to get the hell out. That’s when the warehouse door opens.

Dammit.

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