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Zach propped his hands on his head and stared at the hospital building. “I can’t just sit around and wait until Shark contacts us with whatever the fuck he wants in exchange for Mav.”
“You sure he wants something?”
It was a chilling question. “I hope so.” If Shark didn’t want anything, if he took Mav simply because he wanted to, then Mav was in the worst kind of shit. Shark would torture him then kill him. Just to fuck with the Handlers. Just because he could.
Zach wasn’t willing to give up on his friend like that, so they’d operate under the assumption that Shark wanted something and was willing to snatch Mav for ransom.
Throwing his leg over his bike and dropping his sunglasses down over his eyes, Zach said, “Let’s hit the streets. Start talking to people. Someone’s bound to know where the fuck they might have taken Mav besides their headquarters.” After receiving a nod of agreement from Rocket, he revved the engine and shot out of the lot.
On the way back, he’d call Viper and have him hand out jobs. They needed all hands on deck to scour the dregs of Tennessee in search of information.
Mav would be tortured. There were no two ways around it. Somehow, Zach would have to wrap his mind around that conclusion and come to terms with it or he’d be useless to his club. Even though he wasn’t the biggest fucker in the club, Mav was strong, mentally and physically. He also had a smart mouth and would probably make things worse for himself by giving his captors lip.
But he’d survive.
And Zach would do whatever the fuck it took to get him out of there.
Six hours later, Zach and the rest of the Hell’s Handlers had spoken to every lowlife, criminal, junkie, and general asshole in a fifty-mile radius.
And they were no further along than they’d been when the day started.
All they heard was that the Dragons hadn’t been using their headquarters for the past week. But they’d already known that. No one had any clue if the gang owned any other property, and that fact had Zach’s gut screaming. Someone knew something. Of that he was sure, but they’d yet to find motivation big enough to get someone to rat on Shark.
Zach had even brought Louie out a few times. If a few well-placed whacks with a solid wood bat wasn’t enough to loosen some tongues, Shark’s threats must be severe. They’d get information out of somebody at some point; it was just a matter of picking the weakest link and finding out exactly what would make them cave.
Probably just what Shark did.
A sobering thought, but one Zach didn’t have time to dwell on, because every second wasted was another second Mav was suffering.
“So we’ve got jack shit?” Copper slammed a bottle of Johnnie Walker down before bracing his hands on the table. He loomed over the group, looking ready to tear the clubhouse apart with his bare hands. A feeling Zach was familiar with.
The question was for Zach, but suddenly he found himself unable to answer. Fear for Mav, fury over his ineffectiveness, and guilt for not keeping the club and his friends safe clogged his throat. He shook his head, unable to meet Copper’s gaze.
It was at that moment, Zach’s phone chirped in his pocket. Under normal circumstances, Copper would castrate any man who whipped out his phone during a meeting. Instead, he met Zach’s gaze and nodded.
A lead brick settled in Zach’s stomach as he drew out the phone. It was from Shark. He knew it without even looking, as sure as he knew he wanted to fuck Toni. Christ, it seemed like years ago he’d been angling to get in her pants. In reality a few short hours had shifted all his priorities. What he wouldn’t give to have her rejection be his biggest setback again.
Swallowing down the ice-cold dread, Zach unlocked his phone to find an image of his best friend staring back at him. He couldn’t help the wildly inappropriate snort of laughter that flew from him.
Mav was in bad shape as predicted. Two black eyes. Blood running from both his nose and mouth. Wrists and ankles tied to a chair. He was slumped over, as if it was too painful or required too much energy to sit straight.
But in typical Mav fashion, he had a big fuck you for the assholes who held him. A smirk as big as the Smoky Mountains themselves was on his face. Each fist was curled except for two middle fingers. They pointed toward the ground, since his forearms were bound to the chair and he couldn’t twist his arms for a proper gesture, but he still got the point across. And the best part was, the lackey of Shark’s that sent the photo hadn’t noticed. Otherwise, they’d never have sent it.
