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“If he’s harmed a hair on her head, I’m killing him with my bare hands. A bullet is too fast, and too lenient.”

Ricochet shot me some side eye. “Shit, you really are gone for her.”

“Yeah. Now pull over before you hit that patch of gravel and announce our arrival,” I said.

He brought the SUV to a halt.

“No fuckin’ heroics this time, bro,” Nickel said.

“I wasn’t being heroic back in September,” Ricochet said.

“Nobody’s getting hurt,” Gamble muttered.

“Why would he come here?” I wondered out loud.

“I don’t know, but let’s check her car,” Ricochet said, opening his door.

We all slipped out of the SUV and pushed our doors closed. The area was too quiet. The property was surrounded by a wooden, four-rail estate fence. A big metal gate sat in the middle, and Mickayla’s Corolla was parked cock-eyed beyond it.

I hadn’t climbed a fence in ages, but it was just like riding a bike as I hefted myself up on the gate and over to the other side.

Gamble and his sons followed me. The doors to the car were locked, and nobody was in it.

Nickel ran a hand along the rear wheel well, came up with a magnetic key holder, popped it open and unlocked the car.

He unlocked the trunk.

Nickel lifted the lid long enough to see it was empty before he slammed it shut.

“Goddammit,” Gamble bit out.

“This place is so massive, we’re gonna have to spread out,” Ricochet said.

There was a long overhang off to the left. It was partitioned into stalls, but there were no horses. It must have been used for dirt bike races.

“Before we do that, let’s head over there. See if he’s got her in one of those bays or some shit,” I suggested.

We jogged to the open-air building. Gamble, Nickel, and Ricochet had their guns in their hands. Mine was still in its holster. I couldn’t wait to rip this man limb from limb - once I knew Mickayla was safe.

We quickly went through all of the bays, finding nothing but empty plastic oil bottles and crushed soda and beer cans.

“If he switched vehicles here, we’re fucked,” Ricochet said.

I turned around, unwilling to admit defeat and definitely unwilling to wait on law enforcement to hunt this asshole down.

As I stared off past the rugged track and dirt hills of the course, I saw a familiar sight.

“There’s a campground over there,” I said.

“Where?” Gamble asked.

I pointed past a seven-foot high mound of dirt. “Over there. Bike Week’s coming, and I know what the top of a camper looks like because Blood had me scrub the top of his plenty of times when I was a prospect.”

“Let’s go,” Gamble said.

Ricochet pointed at Nickel. “Run over to that course observation tower, and make sure there isn’t more than one campsite beyond the dirt track. We don’t want to be ambushed if this asshole has someone else working with him, or if he’s working for someone else.”

“On it,” Nickel said.