Page 44 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

“What’s wrong?” Vance asks as he walks into the apartment.

“Looks like our little distraction slipped out during our meeting.”

“She’s probably just walking around the compound. Not a big deal. We didn’t tell her to stay trapped in this room.”

“Where the fuck would she go, Vance? The rec room to hit balls with Jacks?”

“Tank, calm the hell down, brother!”

I check myself, inhaling a deep breath. I’m letting my emotions take control. God dammit. I’m worried about this woman.

“Well, you better go get her before Hawk finds out.”

“I’m on it.”

I head out the door, slamming it behind me. I doubt she’d leave, at least not yet. Unless she got the information she needed. I hurry down the stairs, my eyes scan the bar where some of the guys have started to gather for drinks, joints and time to relax.

I push through the crowd, my eyes scanning every corner, every shadowy nook for a sign of Izzy. If one of the guys saw her without one of us, there’s no doubt they’d try to make a move.

I make my way over to the bar, where Gunnar is hanging with a couple of new prospects, laughing and throwing back shots. He notices me coming and his smile shifts, just a bit, the way it does when club business mixes with the pleasure.

“Tank,” he greets, nodding slightly as the prospects take a discreet step back.

“Gunnar.” I nod back, my gaze still sweeping the room. “Have you seen Izzy tonight?”

Gunnar’s brow furrows, his hand pausing with a beer halfway to his lips. “Izzy?”

“The chick I was with earlier.”

“Nah, man. I’d notice a babe walking around. Believe me.” He readjusts his junk and I want to break his hand insinuating he has a shot with her. He catches my seriousness, and the smile falls from his thin lips. “Why? Is something up?”

“No.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Don’t know yet,” I admit, my eyes still moving, checking every face, every movement around us. “Just got a feeling. You know how it is.”

Gunnar nods, being ex-military, he understands the unspoken language of gut instincts that often speak louder than words. “I’ll keep an eye out, let the others know to ping you if they spot her.”

“Thanks, man.” I clap him on the shoulder, appreciating the backup, but it’s hard enough to send the message that I don’t want anyone to fuck with her. Period. “Let me know immediately if you hear anything.”

“Will do.” Gunnar turns back to his group, throwing a last look my way that says he’s on it, no more words needed.

I move on, heading deeper into the clubhouse. The back rooms, the quiet corners where people go to talk or deal or just be alone.

With each room, the chances of her still being in the compound are growing slimmer.

Frustration knots my chest. If she’s not around here, it means she’s gone, and that’s a whole other level of trouble. It means, Hawk and Vance are right about her. She’s a plant, a snitch and a good one at that.

I continue down the hall and head outside. The night is crisp and cool, and smells like it’s just rained. It's damn near midnight, and here I am, lumbering through the clubhouse like some back-alley enforcer. The air is ripe with the scent of an impending storm and my footsteps echo a bit too loudly on the wet asphalt.

I glance down at the dirt, studying tracks in the dirt, but it’s mostly boots of the guys coming and going. My eyes study the perimeter.

Someone would’ve seen her out front, and if she didn’t want to be seen then she would’ve avoided it and left out the side or back. I walk around the building. My eyes never stop moving, all my training is in full drive.

I spot it, the broken twig, and then another and another. The signs are subtle but there if you know where to look. I follow them, branches swaying slightly, a shoe print sinking into the soft earth.

Then I see her when I round the corner of the building just as a figure—a too familiar silhouette—dangles precariously from a low-hanging window.

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