Page 24 of Desired By Diesel
Every head turns toward her.
"Gracie—" I start.
"She's my daughter." Her voice is steady now, the panic hardening into something else. "I'm coming."
"Any point in talking you out of that?"
"None whatsoever."
"Fine. You take your car," I tell her. "One of the prospects rides with you. You stay in the car until I come out with Amelia. You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Those are the conditions."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Gracie. I can't do what I need to do if I'm worried about you."
"I understand." She holds my gaze. "Bring me my daughter."
King nods at one of the prospects who came with them. "Vince. She's with you. Keep her safe."
"Yes, sir."
"Let's move."
The ride is ninety minutes of controlled fury.
Rogue on my left, Lock on my right. The desert stretches out around us, dark and endless, the road a black ribbon under our wheels.
I push the bike harder than I should. Take curves too fast. Eating up the miles.
I'm thinking about her. Seven years old. Probably confused, wondering why her dad won't take her home. Wondering where her mom is. Wondering if she did something wrong.
The rage builds with every mile. Cold. Patient. Focused. I learned a long time ago that you don't let anger drive — you use it as fuel. You stay sharp. You execute the mission.
But God, it's hard right now. It's hard to stay cold when all I can see is Amelia's face, and all I can feel is Gracie shaking in my arms.
By the time we pull onto Ryan's street — a nice neighborhood, manicured lawns, the kind of place where people think bad things don't happen — my jaw aches from clenching it.
His BMW is in the driveway. Lights on inside.
"How do you want to play this?" Rogue asks, killing his engine.
"I go to the door. You two stay back unless I need you."
"And if he doesn't cooperate?"
"Then I stop asking nicely."
Lock cracks his knuckles. "Works for me."
I walk up to the front door and knock. Polite. Civilized.
Ryan opens it with a smug expression that makes me want to break his jaw on sight. He's holding a glass of whiskey, wearing slacks and a polo like this is just another Sunday evening.
"Can I help you?" He doesn't recognize me at first. Then his eyes narrow. "Wait. You're the neighbor. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm here for Amelia."
"She's staying with me. Her mother can take it up with my lawyer." He starts to close the door.
