When I make it to Three Rivers, a shitty little speck of dust on the map, I have to slow it down a little, just enough to navigate my way through the place to find the GPS coordinates.
It brings me to a tiny little fucking house.
It's then that I realize that I don't know real torture, not until I find it fucking empty.
Fucking.
Empty.
There's a bed in one of the rooms and, fuck me, there's a pair of handcuffs hanging from the bedpost. I lose my ever-loving mind and punch a hole in the door, just fucking shredding it like the wood is nothing.
Once I get my head back together I call the Coyote back.
“You’re there, man. That's where they had her, if she's not there then... she's gone."
The drive back to the Bay is like pulling my fingernails out with fucking pliers.
I tore the house to fucking pieces first, fucking nothing, and then I started calling in my contacts, every last one of them until I had nothing left.
Nothing.
Then I called the kid and she didn't answer it, texting me the second the call ends.
She isn't with the Jackal. I'll find out what I can.
I think I might actually fucking drop dead. The rage pumping through my system is like poison, skewing everything and messing with my damn mind. I can't survive another wait like the last one. I can't go back to business as usual while I know she's out there being fucking brutalized. There's no fucking way.
I need the backup if I'm going to fucking find her.
So I drive straight for the fishing docks in the Bay, finding a bloodthirsty sort of calm settle over me, where I look okay until you touch me and then I'll rip your fucking arm off and chew the meat straight from the bone.
Fuck me, I'm going to tear Harbin and Roxas a new asshole each for ignoring my calls. They'll be lucky to survive me... one wrong word and I'll be down to one friend.
I can't think about whatever it is the kid said to D'Ardo to try and get him away from Odie. Not without feeling like the biggest fucking asshole in all of the Bay.
So I don't think about it, I just keep my foot planted on the pedal until the Mustang is straining to keep up with me the whole damn trip back. It's a wonder I make it back alive.
The fishing docks are teeming with bodies, it’s a fucking strange sight to see. I have enough brains still left in my head to park a block away and get closer on foot. I don't need to be stuck out here with no car thanks to a bullet in my fucking tires or my gas tank. There are bikers fucking everywhere, and all of them are Chaos Demons. Here I was thinking we'd gotten rid of these assholes but nope, hoards of them are loitering around, drinking and smoking. There's biker sluts wandering around in next to nothing, one of them even getting fucked loudly spread out over a hog.
I don't have time for this bullshit.
I need to find my fucking friends and get the fuck out of here, the longer I’m held up the more hell my girl could be going through. I palm a gun because bullets are better in this crowd than knives and a cleaver, and creep forward. There’s no scouts out clearly because everyone I pass is too fucking drunk to stop me from moving forward. I get all the way to the first bonfire, a fucking bonfire in the middle of the parking lot, before I’m stopped.
A hand grabs my arm and I turn on my heel ready to shoot some biker scum between the eyes, only to come face-to-face with Colt motherfucking Graves. He looks a little less beat up than the last time I saw him but fuck does he look pissed.
Why the fuck does he look so familiar?
He drags me behind one of the shipping containers where we have a little cover. Not a lot, but enough that we can have a little chat without catching bullets in our backs while we’re unaware.
"The fuck do you think you're doing here, Butcher? I thought we had an agreement." He hisses and I roll my eyes at him. I haven’t got time for goddamn biker politics, not at all.
"We have fucking nothing, but if you don't wanna die you'll get the fuck outta here. Tonight isn't the