Page 56 of Everest

"Not even his own people. I’ve gathered that he’s only met face-to-face with three men. One’s already dead, gunshot point-blank to the temple, execution style. His body was found in a ditch outside of Lake Charles. The second, no one has seen him in over a year, and the third, well, that’s Tito.”

Nova scratches his jaw. “This Tito, he walks around Baton Rouge untouched?”

Tony nods. “He’s got protection. You move against him, and you’ll have eyes on you in minutes.”

The following silence is thick, and every man at this table understands how close this threat is pressing in.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking through the silence.

I pull it out.

Blocked number.

That’s never a good sign, but my gut tells me to answer. “Yeah?”

“She's alive.” The voice on the other end is distorted and warped, sounding like it’s speaking through a tube of cardboard and static.

My pulse spikes. “Who?”

“Amara. If they haven’t sold her yet.”

“Where?”

“Port Allen. Abandoned warehouse. There’s a shipping container. The south side of the property near the river. Number 29XB.”

“Be more specific,” I bark.

“Look for the old, abandoned sugar refinery. The container is in the clearing behind it.”

I glance around. Everyone is watching me because they feel the shift in the air. “Who is this?” I demand, but the line goes dead. Slowly, I lower the phone, feeling the weight of every man’s eye on me. “That was a tip. That woman London was lookin’ for, Amara, is alive. They got her in a shipping container in Port Allen at the old sugar mill.”

“I know the place,” Nova says.

Tony is on his feet. “She was mine to look after. Let me help.”

Riggs puts a hand up. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Like hell, I ain’t,” Tony barks.

“No.” Riggs’ voice is pure steel. “You can barely move. You’re more help to the club here, watchin’ over the women and children with Catcher.”

Tony’s jaw clenches, but he reluctantly nods.

Riggs looks at Catcher. “Need the keys to your truck, brother,” he says, and Catcher pulls them from his pocket, tossing them Riggs’ way. “No one in or out. Got it?”

“Got it,” Catcher says.

Riggs directs his attention to the rest of us, everyone checking their weapons and getting ready to roll out. “We’re takin’ cages and leavin’ the bikes. Can’t risk the noise. Some of you are with me. The others in the van,” he barks, and we move fast.

The road out of New Orleans is dark, except for our headlights cutting through the long stretch of Louisiana blacktop. I’m behind the wheel of Catcher’s truck, with Riggs riding shotgun. Behind us, Wick follows in the van with Nova, Kiwi, and Fender.

The hum of the tires and the occasional creak of the truck’s old suspension are the only sounds filling the silence. But my head is not quiet.

Amara isn’t a part of this war. She’s just a young woman trying to survive who got caught up with the wrong person. She’s not ours, but that doesn’t matter.

We aren’t saints. There’s plenty of blood on our hands and bodies that will never be found. But there’s a line. We won’t let scum prey on the weak and look the other way. We don’t sit back while a woman’s life is on the line. Sometimes, we protect more than our own. Sometimes, that includes the ones with no one looking out for them.

The port smells like rust and rot, like time has forgotten the place for decades. We roll up quietly, just short of the yard's edge where the river meets the bank. There’s no activity. There's no sound. The abandoned sugar mill looms in the distance, half-collapsed with jagged beams jutting toward the sky like broken ribs. Its brick walls are crumbling, and the smokestack is no longer standing.

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