I look down at the cut covering the idiot’s chest. He’s struggling to breathe, but I notice his patch and lift my fingers to see the whole thing. Fuck. It’s got the letters ‘VP’ right under my grip.

“Francisco fucking Garcia?” I shout, calling him by his full name because his face is so fucking busted up from a prior beating, I didn’t recognize him. “Where’s Vasquez holed up?”

“Calm down, Corrigan. We don’t have to be so uncivilized about this.”

“Uncivilized? What about the bombing of my club. Was that civilized?” My voice level raises and I pistol whip him in his right ribs for saying something so fucking stupid.

He grips my forearm, thinking it’ll help to relieve the chokehold. It won’t. Not that I want to kill the fucker—well, not yet.

“Stop talking crap and tell me where the fuck is your sorry-ass President.”

“He’s not here!” the man insists. “He’s been gone all day. I think he’s at one of his exes or something.”

My arm pistons into his ribs again. “How the fuck does a VP not know where your number one is?”

His demeanor changes and his voice goes calm. “Corrigan, you must be more foolish than I thought. You really believe I’ll rat on my Pres for you?”

He’s right. All of my boys would give their lives up before they ever risk betraying our club. I take a moment to think of my next move. Killing him right this second will only kick the rivalry between our clubs up a notch. And although I’m willing to go that far if I have to, an all-out war with these guys isn’t smart. I want some answers before heads roll.

“Pres! Yo, Pres! Over here!”

I swivel my head to the far right. It’s Tate. He’s in the driver seat of one of the Los Diablos’ pickup trucks, and has Axe in the passenger seat. “Boss, these Los Diablos pricks are falling like dominoes.”

“Vasquez ain’t here either,” I tell them, motioning to the head still locked in my chokehold. “His VP says so.”

“Yo, Garcia,” Tate grins. “You look like hell froze over on your fucking face. Your old lade beat you up again?”

“Get our men to pack it up,” I instruct them. “I’ll throw Garcia in the back. The least he can do is get Vasquez on the phone so we can talk.”

“Sounds good, boss.”

Axe gets on the radio, and after I throw Garcia into the truck’s cab, Tate sticks his head out the window. “I’ll drive us out to our bikes.”

* * *

“Has anyone seen Sabrina or Cindy?” I ask the guys outside the clubhouse a while after we return. By now, hunger’s kicking in too, but I’m more curious as to whether those two were able to play nice while we were gone. “And please tell me someone restocked the kitchen.”

Tate comes out of nowhere. He shoves his hands into his pants pocket and passes me a granola bar, which I open and shove into my mouth. The disgusting fake meal tastes like chemically coated plastic. What I really need is medium rare, a little bloody, and of the cow variety.

“This crap won’t cut it.”

Axe returns to his bike and throws me a resealable plastic bag full of beef jerky. “This should help.”

“No one answered my first question.” I rip open the bag and shove a few pieces of the dried meat into my mouth.

Axe swears under his breath and rubs the back of his neck, then finds a cig and lights it up. “Oh. That.”

“Where is she? Talk.”

Only Tate looks like he’s anxious to share. He shrugs one shoulder. “Your mouthy female chew toy went off with your mother on some kind of girls-only gig. It has to be some weird bonding thing. The guys inside said they were pretty excited to leave.”

Yeah, that doesn’t send off any alarm bells or anything.

“And who let them leave?”

I glare at Tate but it’s impossible to intimidate him. He isn’t afraid of anything. Everything’s afraid of him. Of course, that’s also why it’s a waste of time to be mad at him. It’s one problem down and about eight more to go, and then maybe I can chill with my feet up and a few ice cold six-packs of beer.

Fuck, who am I kidding?

“You told them to keep an eye on the broads, not handcuff them to the bed. Now that I’d be willing to do, even without your asking nicely.” He makes a couple of hip thrusts and mimics smacking a chick’s ass while he’s at it.

I ignore him because he’ll never stop if I encourage his crap. “Where’s Garcia?”

“Resting. Getting ready for round two, whenever he wakes up. As for your lady, I’ve got to say thanks for bringing her around. She’s one of the most perfect specimens I’ve seen walk into our twisted establishment. I wouldn’t mind getting a chance to corrupt the shit out of her for an hour or two.”

One moment, I’m standing there listening. The next, Tate goes down. He should know better, but I give him some extra home-schooling, my fist gripping his junk and squeezing hard so he knows I’m not past ripping it off and feeding it to the coyotes. He starts to whimper, and his face twists with pain as I gave it another tug.

“If you value your body parts, you won’t fucking speak like that about her again.” Fuck, I don’t recognize my own voice.

“Shit, boss! Okay. I’m done. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” I release the guy’s balls and watch as he crumples to the gravel for a while. He gets up later, brushing off the desert dust and rearranging his groin area. Then he whistles to call out to one of the sack demons hanging around the front of the clubhouse. “Hey. Take your fine ass inside and grill up a couple of steaks for the Pres.”

“No one knows exactly where Sabrina went with Cindy?” I ask, because the two of them together, away from this compound? That can’t end well.

“They said that Cindy told someone inside they were going back to Sabrina’s condo to pick up a few things.”

“Back to the condo…where she was tranqued?” Fuck. I should have been more specific.

“This is the first I’m hearing that your girl was attacked.”

I shake my head and run a dusty hand down my face. This has been forty-eight hours from hell. Fuck, I need a shower, but personal hygiene is at the end of a growing list. Talking to Vasquez is more crucial, but my gut wants to bump Sabrina to the top of the list. The problem is that right now, everything is a fucking priority.

“Did Garcia give you another phone number for Vasquez?” I glance over at Tate again. He’s still groaning in pain. “Sorry about your balls, man.”

“Yeah. I deserved it.”

“Fucking right.”

Tate’s face shifts into a twisted smirk. “Plus, I kind of enjoyed it. It’s been a while since they’ve been rearranged. That Dominican mistress I’ve been hitting up is booked solid lately—”

“Okay. Stop talking. You need to keep that kinda shit to yourself. Tell me what information Garcia gave you. I have a number for Vasquez, but he’s not answering. I need to talk to him stat.”

That sobers him up real quick. “I’ll break him soon. He already admitted the bombing wasn’t just for shits and giggles. It was a hired hit.”

“Fuck.” I scrub my hands through my grit-coated hair, almost as angry about the confirmation as the fact that Tate took so fucking long to let me know.

“That about sums it up.”

“Did he say who hired them?”

“No. He doesn’t know. Which is probably another fucking lie.”

“Figure out a way to reach Vasquez,” I bark, heading back to my ride with a fist clenched and ready to punch something.

“Will do, boss. And I’ll keep an eye on the place while you go find your girl.”

“She’s not my girl.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“Get some eyes out here to keep watch. I’ll call with a status when I’m on my way back.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“And tell the men inside that next time Sabrina wants to leave the clubhouse, they’re to call me first.”

“She’s under lock and key. Got it.”

Rolling my shoulders to minimize the nervous tension in my neck, I head over to mount my bike again.

* * *

I take the first few steps out of the main elevators onto the plush condo carpet at Sabrina’s place and squint my eyes to adjust to the indoor lighting as I take off my sunglasses. Whatever the women are up to, it won’t be roses. I sense high-stakes drama, possibly some hair-pulling, and God knows what else. There’s only one door on this floor before Sabrina’s apartment. Giovanni’s door.

Something connects the detail in my brain. A memory flashes. I picture Sabrina during the tranquilizer incident, which loops on repeat in my head as though I’m supposed to remember something I missed during the melee. I don’t question the knot in my gut that tells me to fire off a text to Axe and Tate. It’ll take them a while to drive down here, but I can use the backup.

I make it to her door and think about knocking, but quickly decide that’s not fucking happening.

Sabrina’s screaming on the other side of this door. Thinking isn’t on the agenda anymore. I jack the door open wide, my heart thumping out of my chest. My eyes flick across the trashed living room. It’s a fucking disaster area. Pillows are shredded, magazines are on the floor, vases are broken. Her sofa is overturned among shards of glass and other debris.

Then there’s another shrill scream down the hall, and my mother’s voice shouting and swearing over the shrieks. My instincts are ratcheted up. I’ll use lethal force if necessary.

No one touches what’s mine.