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A 1969 Chevy Camaro.
I wasn’t sure about the details, motorcycles being more my thing than cars, but Scoop was staring at this baby like he was about to get on one knee and declare his undying love for it. “So it’s good?”
He turned to me, his eyes wide. “Good? This thing is fucking beautiful. Where the hell did it come from?”
I shrugged. “Some guy reached out to say he’d won a card game, but the loser wouldn’t pay up. He offered half of what he was owed if we collected on it. This was our half.”
Scoop reached in, tinkering with a couple of things, his head bobbing up and down as he studied all the parts and pieces. “Motor is well looked after. Paint is clean as hell. This model, in this condition, is worth at least eighty grand. Minimum.”
“Love to fucking hear that, brother.”
Some collections were easier than others. Sometimes we bought it outright, and the risk fell on us to get it back. Other times we merely acted as the repo men and took a cut. But we’d learned to be picky about the jobs we took on.
This one, in particular, had been a no-brainer. This car had been one of at least ten he had parked in a show room under his house.
It hadn’t been that he couldn’t afford the money he owed.
It was simply that he was a cheap fucking bastard who thought he could get away with not paying. And that was how the rich stayed rich.
I rounded the car and reached into the driver’s side, turning the engine off again. “Find a buyer and get it done.”
“No problem,” Scoop said, digging into his pocket. “I’ve already got a guy in mi—”
A loud honking cut him off and pulled our attention toward the front of the clubhouse. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people blast on their horns because of how narrow the road was and how close people came to colliding.
Though, these honks were different. They were loud and slow. Less, get out of my fucking way, and more, please help me.
“Is that…” Scoop started, his eyes narrowing as he tried to focus.
But I’d already seen it. “Missy’s car.” The nose of it was pressed hard against the front gates. “Chase! Get Bishop,” I yelled as Scoop and I dashed out the roller doors. We didn’t always keep the gates closed, but with the clubhouse virtually empty today, it was a precaution we took.
“Did you give her the code?” Scoop questioned, stones crunching under our boots as we hurried across the front lot.
“Yeah, just the oth—” The squeal of tires cut me off, and two large trucks skidded to a halt in the middle of the cul-de-sac. They looked like they were jacked up on steroids, lifted high off the ground with off-road tires, and the fronts of both were reinforced with thick metal bull bars. These vehicles were designed to do damage, and with windows blacked out with illegal tints and no license plates, whoever was driving them was probably used to getting away with it.
“Fuck!” I cursed, my boots already hammering hard against the stones. Now we were closer, I could see the mangled front bumper on Missy’s car through the bars of the gate.
Thankfully I could already hear the chorus of heavy boots. Bishop, Cain, and Chase were joining us, though I already knew it was going to be too late. The trucks’ tires began to kick up smoke as the drivers threw them into gear and hit the gas, obviously realizing they hadn’t cornered Missy at the end of a dead-end street.
I rushed over to the keypad on our side of the gate and slammed in the code. Bishop and Cain slipped through the gap in the gates the second they were open far enough to fit a body through, both of my brothers pulled handguns as they chased after the large vehicles.
Not because they thought they could catch them, but to see if they could get any distinct details that would hopefully help us find these motherfuckers.
I slipped through the gates, my focus entirely on Missy’s car. I rushed to the driver’s door. There was a heavy dent, the metal completely folded in as if it was nothing but a tin can. It took fucking force to do that much damage, and I instantly sucked in a deep breath, holding it tight as I reached for the door handle and yanked it open.
Missy’s hands were gripping the wheel, her knuckles white as hell. Her safety belt wasn’t on, her lip was split, and blood was smeared across her chin.
But she was alive.
And that right now was all that damn well mattered.
“Hey, baby,” I said cautiously, curling my hand around her cheek and turning her face to me. She blinked several times, sending fresh tears dripping down her face before her eyes finally focused on me. I quickly scanned her from head to toe, noting that the rest of her body appeared uninjured before returning my focus to the red mark just above her eyebrow that looked like it was sticking out a little. “That’s a good bump you have there. Looks like you might have a black eye tomorrow.”
“I didn’t pass out. I made it,” she whispered, her lip trembling. If the state of her injuries were the gasoline, that was the fucking match, and suddenly, I was burning red hot.
“You did, and that’s all that matters,” I soothed, brushing my fingers through her hair and pushing it back from her face. She was in shock, flight mode was in full effect, and I needed to take this slow and steady, allow her to come back down to earth on her own time. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
She blinked several times, her brow pinching between her eyes as she seemed to stare right through me. “I was at The Rush, getting the last of my stuff,” she explained softly. “She appeared out of nowhere, saying she needed to see you. It was important. We got in my car. Then someone drove into me at a stop light.”
