Page 146 of Boulder's Weight

I can hear gunfire, shouting, more explosions.

Good, the plan is working.

We clear rooms methodically, finding nothing but expensive furniture and artwork.

No sign of Lashes.

No sign of Sally.

Until we reach what appears to be a study on the second floor.

The door is partially open, light spilling into the hallway.

I signal to Razor, who takes position on the other side of the door.

On my count, we burst in, weapons ready.

Sally Bernard sits behind a massive desk, a gun pointed at the door, as if she's been expecting us.

She's older than I imagined, her hair short and steel-gray, her face lined but her eyes sharp.

She doesn't seem surprised to see us, which immediately puts me on edge.

"I was wondering when you'd get around to me," she says in a thick British accent. "Took you buggars long enough."

"Where is she?" I demand, my gun trained on her head. "Where's Lashes?"

Sally's smile is cold. "Not here. Not for a while now."

Razor moves to secure the room, checking for hidden threats while I keep her covered. "We know Andrés is dead," I say. "We know you're cleaning house. Tell us where Lashes is, and maybe you get to walk out of here."

It's a lie, of course.

Sally's not walking out of this house alive. But she doesn't need to know that yet.

She laughs, the sound genuinely amused. "You think I care about walking out of here? This was never about surviving, prospect. This was about making your club suffer before I go. About getting vengeance for my husband, who your club brutally murdered. About making Amara feel the same pain I felt when your brothers killed my husband."

"The club might have been looking for Rage, but do you forget the kind of man your husband was?" Razor spits, still checking the room. "He wasn’t good. He was just as bad as Rage was. The fucker tried to rape club woman, old ladies. You can act like he was a decent man, maybe even a good one, but he was just as fucked up as the rest of the men in his family. The club took justice against him."

Sally's expression darkens. "The club decides what's justice? The club decides who lives and who dies?" She shakes her head. "No. I decide now. I've been deciding for years, working in the shadows, pulling strings. Do you know how satisfying it was to watch you all scurry around, trying to figure out who was behind everything, trying to anticipate my next move?"

I take a step closer, asking her again, my patience wearing thin. "Where the fuck is Lashes?"

"Gone." Sally's smile returns, more cruel this time. "Sold to the highest bidder. Trafficked, like so many other women your club has ignored over the years. She's probably halfway across the ocean by now, on her way to a new life of service."

Her words catch me off guard.

I knew she’d do something fucked up, but not this twisted.

Lashes—trafficked. Sold like property. It's a fate worse than death.

"You're lying," Razor says, though I can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"Am I?" Sally opens a drawer, moving slowly so we can see she's not reaching for a weapon. She pulls out a phone, taps the screen a few times, then turns it around. "See for yourself."

The video shows Lashes, bound to a chair, a date stamp in the corner from two days ago. She's beaten, bloody, but alive.

A man stands beside her, speaking in a language I don't recognize.

---