Page 101 of Tank’s Weakness

I realize my pockets are empty, and I left it in the cupholder of the wrecker. I jog back to it and dial her number.

“Come on, baby, pick up,” I murmur as I listen to it ring over and over.

“Hi, you’ve reached Delaney. I can’t come to the phone right now,” her voicemail says.

Pacing, I hang up and dial again and again when the voicemail picks up a second and then a third time.

Think, Tank. Fucking think.

Maybe it’s an issue with my phone?

I pull up Fox’s number and dial.

“What can I do for you, Tank?” he asks as soon as he picks up.

“Shit. It wasn’t my phone.”

“Come again?” he asks.

“Delaney came to the school today to clean her classroom. She called saying that her tires were slashed and needed a ride. Now I can’t find her. Acid was on her tail, but he’s not answering either,” I rasp, worry bleeding into my voice.

Immediately, I hear his keyboard clacking in the background.

“This isn’t like her, Fox. You know that. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Keep your head straight, brother. Don’t freak out until it’s necessary. I’m pulling up the cameras now. Maybe she went inside to wait for you.”

“That’s what I thought, but she’s not answering her phone, and the doors to the building are locked. The classrooms I can see into are dark. The parking lot is deserted. No one is here but me, Fox.”

I hear him suck in a breath.

“What is it? What did you find?”

“I need you to head back to the clubhouse,” he says, voice oddly calm.

“Fox, don’t fuck with me, man. I need to know what’s going on.”

“I really think you should head back. I’ll fill Smoke and the others in on the situation while we wait for you to arrive.”

“Fox, I’m not leaving here without her, man. I’m going out of my fucking mind, so just tell me,” I snap.

“She’s not there,” he says coolly.

“Then where is she?” I ask, running my hand through my hair.

“He took her, Tank.”

Fox doesn’t need to tell me who he is. I already know.

Blaine.

Her fucking psycho-ass ex, whom I already should have taken out.

“Fuck!” I roar.

“Get back here now.”

“No, I’m going after her. Can you trace her phone? His? Does his car have a LoJack?” I ask, referring to the tracker that a lot of automotive companies use.