Page 91 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

Hawk cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is almost deafening. He turns his head slightly, his voice low and steady. “You ready?”

I nod, even though my stomach is in knots. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

He helps me off the bike, and I reluctantly let go of him, my legs shaky but determined. Vance and Tank are already moving, their expressions grim and focused. We gather near the entrance, a rusted metal door hanging slightly ajar. The smell of damp and decay wafts from within, adding to the sense of unease.

Hawk takes the lead, pushing the door open with a creak that echoes through the stillness. “Stay close,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning the darkness.

I follow, my heart pounding in my chest. The interior of the warehouse is a maze of old machinery and crates, the shadows playing tricks on my eyes.

The deeper we go, the more I shiver. It’s not just the cold air—it’s the feeling that we’re being watched.

“Jesus Christ, this guy’s a sick fuck,” Tank murmurs. I look over, and my stomach twists. He’s standing in front of a wall covered with photos—graphic, disturbing images of women in various states of distress. Some are gagged and bound, their eyes wide with fear. I follow his gaze to a row of empty cages, their bars rusted with age and... something else. Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down. I can’t lose it now.

Vance’s hand lands on my shoulder firmly.

“You good, Izzy?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Suddenly, we hear the sound of frantic movement up ahead. Hawk signals for us to spread out and approach cautiously. The tension in the air is thick, every step bringing us closer to the source of the noise.

We round a corner and there he is—Reynolds! He’s frantically shoving papers and photographs into an incinerator, the flames hungrily licking at the edges of the documents, threatening to consume the evidence.

Nothing is said.

In that split second, everything happens at once. Vance and Hawk charge him with a burst of speed and fury.

The force of their impact sends Reynolds sprawling to the ground, papers flying in a chaotic flurry around them. Reynolds struggles, kicking and clawing like a cornered animal, but Hawk and Vance are relentless, their combined strength overpowering him.

Vance snarls,his grip tightening on Reynolds’ arm. The raw anger in his voice is palpable. “You sick bastard.”

“Get the hell off me!” Reynolds screams in a blind fury. It’s too late. He was taken completely off guard. He squirms and writhes underneath him, but Hawk has no mercy, beating his face in with a hard punch, knocking his front tooth right out.

The sound of Tank’s voice cuts through the chaos as he moves to the incinerator, quickly pulling the remaining documents away from the flames. “We’ve got the evidence,” he says, relief and triumph mingling in his tone. “Everything we need to bury this son of a bitch.”

“Where’s Laina?” I cry out.

Reynolds spits out a mouthful of blood, dazed and confused.

“Shut up, you slut.”

With that, Hawk’s fist lands a solid smack and Reynolds falls unconscious.

“I should kill this asshole,” he growls.

Tank glances back at me. “Over here, Izzy.” My breath catches in my throat as we approach a set of stairs leading down to a lower level.

“She has to be here,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

Vance pulls out his phone. “I’m going to call the cops now, alright. This will be proof enough of what the hell this little pervert’s been up to.”

“Vance, watch this fucker for us, will ya?” Hawk asks, moving to stand by my side.

“Oh, I’ll be the best company he’s ever had.”

We descend the stairs, the air growing colder and more oppressive with each step. The lower level is dimly lit, the faint hum of electrical equipment the only sound. My pulse quickens as we navigate the narrow corridors. Finally, we reach a heavy metal door at the end of the hallway. It’s slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the corridor. Hawk holds up a hand, signaling us to stop. He listens for a moment, then nods, pushing the door open.

The room beyond is a warped imitation of a bedroom. A dirty mattress sits in the center of the space, and my stomach lurches at the sight of the restraints affixed to its four corners.

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