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Every night for nearly two weeks, after MC business is done for the night–not that it’s ever truly done, but when all the brothers head home to their women–I hit the streets.
I search every dive bar, strip club and whore house in Angel Harbor and beyond, searching for the little shitstain who kidnapped his own fucking sister. On every ride my knuckles grip the handlebars until they’re white and stiff, aching like a son of a bitch.
When I find Emiliano, I’m going to kill him. It’s why I go out and search for him on my own. Ace hasn’t given me the green light to fuck him up. He wants to give Arturo the chance to make it right—whatever the fuck that means.
For me, it means I need to find him, find out where he took Valentina, kill the bastard, and get rid of the body on my own. No brothers involved. Easy peasy. She’ll be back in my arms before anyone knows what happened.
I just hope that when I find Valentina, she’ll forgive me.
Tonight I’m heading north in search of Emiliano. I’ve targeted plenty of small beach communities where people don’t ask a lot of questions as long as you can pay to stay or eat. If he’s hiding somewhere, this place is a good bet.
Yet, even though I’m out looking night after night, he’s nowhere to be found. I know he’s out there somewhere, though. If Arturo and Benedicto have found him, they’d let us know immediately to avoid the risk of us fucking them over when the next shipment arrives.
My fingers itch to get to Emiliano first, to find him and beat his ass. To tear his fucking arms from his body and beat him with them for daring to put his hands on my woman, for taking her against her will.
I leave the beach bar without any answers, and try Valentina’s phone again, but she doesn’t answer. I know I should stop calling, but I can’t. I don’t even dial her main phone, so it’s not like I can hear her sexy accent on her greeting. It’s just some automated message telling me what I don’t want to hear right now.
“Mother fucker isn’t here,” I growl to myself and get back on my bike, heading further north. I check the beach bars for the rich and the poor, the biker bars, and even the tents that crop up on the beach when the cops stop looking, and he’s not there, either.
No one has seen him or anyone matching his description in the past week, so I have to wonder, if he’s not with his family and he’s not hiding out nearby, where the fuck is he?
It’s getting late, or early depending on how you look at it, when I turn around and head south on the PCH. I check out the abandoned trailers, the rental homes, and the camping grounds that cater to RV’ing tourists and retirees. Nothing.
A whole lot of nothing.
The sun starts to streak across the sky by the time I make it back to the clubhouse, exhausted and discouraged. Emiliano gets to live another day, which pisses me off to no end. I’m in a bad mood and in desperate need of coffee when I stomp inside. Then I’m damn near run over by Wild Man.
“Whoa,” I say, my hands on his chest. “Where’s the fire?”
Wild Man steps back, his eyes wide before he rolls them. “I’ve been looking all over for you, brother. Where the fuck you been?”
“Around,” I say vaguely. “What’s up?”
“I found something interesting.” Wild Man looks up and follows my gaze to the coffee pot behind the bar. “You’ve been out all night again.” Wild Man sighs heavily and drops down in the closest chair. It’s not a question, and I’m grateful because it means I don’t have to lie to him.
“What did you find,” I ask and pour a mug of coffee, quickly draining it and refilling it. I feel his gaze on me, but I focus on the coffee as I join him at the table.
“So,” he begins with that evil genius smile he gets when he figures out some magic computer shit. “I found a private flight that took off about an hour after your call with Valentina.”
I froze and let the words sink in. “He took her out of California.” Not just that. “Out of the country?”
Wild Man nods. “And that’s not the most interesting part. Why did it take an hour for the flight to leave? Kidnapping someone is a bit of a fucking emergency, right? And Long Beach has a few private strips that are a hell of a lot closer. Yet this flight took off from Burbank. Why?”
I turn over the words in my mind trying to figure out what Wild Man’s getting at.
