Page 89 of Spock’s Snare

“Does she live there?”

“Not anymore. She entered hospice care six months ago. According to her medical billing address, she’s in a facility across town. The house hasn’t been sold, and the utilities are still active.”

My gaze locks with Rush’s.

“Got him.”

I hit the apartment door at a run after gathering all the photos of Chloe, with Hawk and Rush pounding down the hallway on my heels.

The address leads us into a neighborhood where half the houses look one strong wind away from collapsing.

Faded paint peels from warped siding. Chain-link fences lean toward cracked sidewalks, and weeds choke yards gone brown beneath the Vegas sun. Blackwood’s mother’s house sits in the middle of the block, a squat single-story place with filthy windows and an overgrown front yard.

There are people in the street—a lot of people.

We gun our bikes and ride full throttle into the melee.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: CHLOE

I move through the backyard as quickly as I dare, keeping low and staying close to the wall. Every instinct urges me to sprint, but the house has too many windows. One glimpse of movement could bring Steven crashing through the back door before I reach the gate.

My feet sink into dead grass and loose dirt. Pebbles cut into the soles of my feet, but I barely feel them beneath the pain pulsing through the rest of my body. My wrists burn where the ropes tore away layers of skin. Each breath makes my battered stomach ache.

I reach the wooden gate and carefully lift the rusted latch. It squeaks despite my efforts, and I freeze.

No door opens, and thankfully, no furious voice shouts my name.

I slip through the narrow gap and ease the gate closed behind me. Staying close to the neighboring house, I hurry along its side until I reach the front yard. An old gray sedan sits in the driveway. Music thumps from inside the house, telling me someone is home. Relief surges through me.

I race onto the porch, but before knocking, I glance through the wide front window.

Three men sit around a dining table covered with stacks of cash and guns.

A massive Black man with a shaved head counts bills into neat piles. Tattoos cover his thick arms, and a heavy gold chain rests against his white tank top. Beside him, a stocky Mexican with close-cropped hair secures bundles of cash with rubber bands. The third man, younger and leaner, has long dark hair pulled into a braid and a pistol resting near his elbow.

Before I can move out of the way, the younger man glances up, and we lock eyes.

“Yo, DeShawn,” he says sharply.

The big man turns his head.

For one terrible second, we stare at each other through the glass. Then all three men surge to their feet. I spin and run.

I scream when the front door bangs open behind me.

“Hey!” the stocky man shouts. “Stop!”

I leap from the porch and sprint across the dry lawn. My feet slip in the dirt, and pain tears through my ribs, but I keep moving.

“She was looking through the damn window!” the younger man yells.

“Grab her, Rico,” DeShawn orders.

Their footsteps pound behind me. They’re close—far too close. The stocky man, probably Rico, curses as I race off the curb and directly into the street. Only then do I realize there is a battered red pickup barreling right towards me.

The driver blares their horn, but all I can do is throw up my hands and stumble backward. The tires squeal against the pavement when the driver brakes hard. The pickup stops only a foot away, its engine rumbling.

When I glance up, I find three women staring at me through the windshield.