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“Let’s go.”
We burn onto the highway. Jigsaw’s able to move ahead easier than I am, weaving in and out of traffic ahead of me. My gaze searches the sea of vehicles for the white van.
Nothing.
Keeping an eye on the road, I grab my phone and send the photos of the van to Z. Please let one of them be clear enough to make out the license plate.
Miles and miles of highway go by in a blur. Still no sign of the van. I’ve even lost sight of Jigsaw.
I pass an exit. Then another one. What if the van got off on one of the earlier exits? He could be headed anywhere by now.
With Shelby trapped inside her trunk.
The sick black weight of anger and frustration slithers through my chest.
How could I fail her like this?
My phone rings through the truck’s Bluetooth and I punch the button to answer the call.
“You planning to buy a van?” Z’s voice rumbles through the speakers.
“He got Shelby. The motherfucker took her from the arena. Right under my nose. He has her, Z.”
“What the fuck?” All humor vanishes from Z’s voice. “Where are you?”
“I almost had the guy. He slipped right through my fingers.” My voice breaks on the last word.
“We’ll get her back,” he says with calm authority. “It’s gonna be okay. Where are you now?”
I explain what happened and where I am.
“Can you pull over?”
“I can’t, Z.” I barely choke out the words. “I gotta find her.”
“Brother,” he says slowly, “you can’t be sure he even went that way. Or that he didn’t get off the highway already. Pull over.” There’s a muffled noise but I still make out Z telling someone to get Jiggy on the phone.
Z returns to our call. “Where are you now?”
I flick on my blinker, carefully moving to the right until I can finally stop on the shoulder. I read the mile marker to Z. He’s quiet for a few seconds.
“Okay. I’m calling Ice so he can get his guys down there. Wait for Jigsaw, then both of you go back to the arena. As much as I hate to say it, cooperate with the cops. We need every resource we can pull into this.”
“Fuck.” That’s going to mean hours of wasted time answering stupid questions instead of searching for Shelby. But Z’s right. I can’t let my ego or fury get in the way of finding my girl. “He’s dead, Z.”
“I hear you, brother.” He’s silent for a few seconds. “I’m working on the photos now. Trying to make out the full plate number. Someone is running a partial in the meantime. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll get her back, Rooster. I promise.”
While I trust Z to do everything he can to help, I’ve endured enough trauma in my life to know there are no guarantees.
Chapter Two
Rooster
The arena parking lot’s in absolute chaos when we return. Most of the fire trucks are gone, replaced by more cop cars. A few unmarked vehicles catch my attention.
My phone’s blowing up with texts from Greg asking where I am.
Me: In parking lot.
Greg: Dressing room with cops.
Jigsaw’s mouth is set in a grim line and his eyes burn with fury as he watches me slide out of the truck. “I sent Z the video I got,” he says quietly. “I was moving fast, so I don’t know how much he’ll be able to tell from it or if he can get the plate number. I’m sorry, brother.”
At a loss for words, I squeeze his shoulder in thanks.
He flicks his gaze toward the crowd clustered by the loading dock entrance. “Let’s deal with this. If Z gets anything, I’ll distract the pigs so you can slip away.”
Clearly, Jiggy’s looking forward to dealing with law enforcement as much as I am.
Two Harleys thunder into the parking lot and stop in a grassy spot away from all the other vehicles. Jigsaw and I jog over to meet them.
Pants gets to me first. “I’m sorry, brother.” He pulls me in and slaps my back. “Ice called in his local contact at the FBI. He should already be here. You can trust him,” he says against my ear.
Shit, guess Ice has been making friends with all the alphabet agencies, not just the ATF. Don’t give a fuck. Right now, I’m grateful for whatever shady business Ice has his fingers in—as long as it helps me find Shelby. “Thank you.”
“We’ll get your girl back.” T-Bone slaps my shoulder next. “Ice is working on those photos with Z.”
Guess that means the two of them are coordinating how to break into the Virginia DMV’s records or whatever other databases they need. Thank fuck.
“Logan!”
I groan, recognizing Greg’s voice.
“Who’s the pencil neck?” Pants cracks his knuckles.
“Her manager.”
He grunts in response.
“The cops are waiting in her dressing room. They want to speak to you.” Greg stops short, surveying our small group. “What happened to you? Where is Shelby?”
