Page 37 of Ravaged and Ruined
He nods, “Unless someone had a damn drone, we’re invisible.”
“Good.” At least that’s one less thing I have to worry about.
Tires crunch over gravel. The lead van skids a little on the damp earth beneath its tires. The second slowly creeps to a stop behind the other. The prospects driving them have done a hell of a job earning their patches the past few days and when things settle down I’ll make sure they know it.
I signal for them to kill the engines and sit tight while we make our rounds before getting the women out.
Pike kicks open the warped door with his boot and gives a dry chuckle. “Home sweet fuckin’ home.”
Grizzly follows, his shotgun resting against his shoulder like an extension of his body. Surge and Backdraft split off, their Glocks raised, eyes sweeping corners for movement.
My gun is tucked at my side but my hand is ready to retrieve it if this place has been compromised. God only knows how long it’s been since it’s been used last.
Inside, it’s worse. It’s not sterile. Hell, it’s not even clean. It smells like mold and mouse shit. But it’s four walls and a roof. It’s warm, and it’s safe, and right now, that’s all we can offer.
I sweep through the house, eyes flicking over broken furniture, the boarded windows, the weak hinges on the back door. It’s not secure, but it’s isolated. We’ll hold long enough for Quinn to get here.
Rancor’s hulking frame nearly brushes the ceiling beams as he checks the windows and doors.
Hashtag scans the space for anything off, wires, cameras, disturbed flooring. “No traps, no surveillance. We’re good.”
“Cabin’s clear,” Surge informs me.
“Good. Let’s get the girls inside.” I say, exhaling slowly. “Gently.”
Crank yanks open the back doors of the van. The women are still in the back, quiet as ghosts, huddled together in the dark. Some won’t meet our eyes. Others stare through us like we’re another kind of monster. I don’t blame them. I’d stare too.
Padre is already helping one of the girls steady herself on shaky legs.
One by one, we help them out of the van, staying quiet, and cautious. No sudden moves. No barking orders. Just open hands and calm voices.
We lead them in, one slow step at a time, guiding the girls into the cramped living room. The old couch sags under the weight as three of them settle in, another folding down onto the worn rug like her legs gave out. The guys hang back, towering and still, their presence too large for a space this tight, so I motion them out with a sharp nod. Leaving only Padre and Tango behind.
I pace outside, trying to burn the restlessness out of my legs. A cigarette hangs from my lips, the tip flaring red as I take a long drag and blow the smoke out slowly, trying to steady the rage humming through my chest.
Inside, the girls are settling. If you can call shaking and crying settling. One of them hasn’t said a word. Another won’t stop whispering prayers in a language I don’t speak.
“They look dehydrated. One’s got a busted wrist,” Surge states, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his zippo, the flame briefly illuminating the strain around his eyes.
“We need more than gauze and Gatorade.” Grizzly adds, exhaling a stream of smoke as he leans against the porch railing, boots planted wide and steady.
“No shit,” I murmur, dragging a hand over my face. It comes away black with soot.
I watch Rancor and Pike get to work unloading crates while the prospects take orders from Backdraft and Crank dragging them down to the root cellar. Tango is standing guard on the porch with a sawed-off balanced on the ledge. Every man’s tense. We know this isn’t over.
Hashtag’s on the front porch, holding his phone up to the sky scanning signal strength like he’s willing it to grow. “Got one bar,” he mutters. “Enough to ping Quinn. She’s about forty out.”
“Good,” I say, stepping beside him. Quinn will know how to help them. She deals in vengeance and mercy, and she’s got an entire club of gentle but hard-ass women to back her up.
“We stay dark until she rolls in. Eyes open.”
I take one last drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke sit in my lungs before I exhale slowly. Then I flick the butt into the dirt and grind it out under my boot.
With smoke still trailing from my nostrils, I head back inside. The women are still huddled together, eyes wide, shell-shocked. A few of them keep glancing at the door like they expect someone to drag them back out of it.
Padre is crouched beside the one I can’t understand, speaking in Spanish, his words gentle. His voice is low, his eyes soft with compassion even if his face is carved from stone. She’s giving him a fragile smile in return. It damn near undoes me.
This isn’t what we came for but they are the only thing that matters now.
