Page 128 of Bloom: Part 2

“Hey, I know you,” the paramedic said.

“Tend to the patient,” I snapped.

Without a second word, he focused on Max, signaling his partner to bring the stretcher. They worked quickly, transferring him onto it while fitting a mask over his face to aid his breathing. As they rushed Max into the waiting ambulance, Crowe attempted to follow them but was held back by one of the other paramedics.

“I’m sorry, but it’s best we take him alone.”

“Crowe, I’ll go with them.” Jamie hopped into the back without waiting for the paramedics to agree. “You can follow us in the truck. Logan, do what you can to find Bloom.”

“Bloom.” Crowe sounded lost, as if he just realized Bloom was missing. “He was with Max. Where is he?”

“He…” Shit, I had no answer. Bloom was missing, and with each passing minute, the uncertainty grew stronger. My stomach tied up in knots, and my legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. I stared at the blood on my hands. Max’s blood. What if Bloom was bleeding out somewhere else?

I spun to the young man who had found Max. He sat crumpled on the ground in the biker’s lap, his shoulders shaking with every choked sob. His tear-streaked face was pale, his eyes wide with the shock of what he’d witnessed.

“Ask him if he saw anything,” I said to Mort, my voice tight, almost desperate.

Mort shook his head grimly. “I already did. Max was already shot, and Bloom was gone by the time he walked out, but… he did hear a car drive off.”

Bloom.

My chest constricted, the air around me suddenly too thin. My pulse thundered in my ears, each beat a drumroll of dread.

Oh god, where is he?

“It’s not too late. We can find him.” Uncle Mickey stepped up beside me and clamped a hand down on my arm, his grip solid, like an anchor. “We have manpower. Have some search the premises. Others will ride out across town to get answers.”

What if it is too late?

The thought clawed at the edges of my mind, refusing to be silenced. My fingers trembled as I clenched them into fists, trying to focus on the here and now, trying to stop my mind from spiraling into the worst-case scenario.

“He’s right,” Grimm said sharply, already barking orders to the bikers. His voice was calm, commanding, the polar opposite of the storm raging inside me. Men grouped up, their faces grim and determined, each ready to ride out into the night. Engines roared like battle cries, piercing the air as pairs sped off toward every exit out of town.

“Spread out,” Crowe bellowed, straddling his bike. “Search every nook and cranny of this place. I want the man responsible for this.”

“Go to Max.” Grimm stepped into his path. “I’ll handle things here.”

Crowe looked between the direction the ambulance had gone and the men preparing to search for Bloom. For a long moment, he seemed torn, the weight of his choices visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. Finally, he nodded stiffly, kicking his bike into gear. “Find him,” he said to me through clenched teeth. Then he was tearing off toward the hospital, his roar fading into the distance.

Around me, the remaining men scattered, their boots pounding against the ground as they swept the area. The airwas electric with purpose, their determination palpable, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. The fear wrapped around my chest like a vise, squeezing tighter and tighter with every second that passed without him.

Where are you, Bloom?

I closed my eyes, but it was a mistake. My mind conjured images I didn’t want to see: Bloom alone, scared, hurt—or worse. I balled my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms as I fought against the rising panic. I couldn’t afford to lose control. Not now. Not when he needed me.

“Uncle Mickey,” I said, my voice sharp. “Where’s Emil?”

My stomach churned with a sick dread. There was a reason I hadn’t trusted my uncle fully, a reason I’d kept him and my brother at arm’s length. Could they have had something to do with this? Was I paranoid, or was my gut screaming a truth I didn’t want to face?

“I think he went off to assist with the search,” Uncle Mickey replied evenly, his expression unreadable.

But had he?

“Bishop didn’t come tonight,” I said, my tone clipped.

Uncle Mickey shrugged, but his casual response grated against my nerves. “He wasn’t feeling well, so I told him to take the night off.”

Convenient. Too convenient.

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