Wrench snatches the phone from me and switches the video off. I'm about to take it back off him when he smacks my hand away and plugs it into the computer.
"What the fu-"
"Tracking," he says, eyes on the screen. "If the fucker wasn't smart, we can get a lock on their location."
Even as his fingers dance over the keyboard, Jaz's screams continue to sound in my head. It's all I can hear.
Nervous energy runs through me.
What if I don't get there in time?
What if he breaks her again?
What if . . .
My hand flies through the closest wall breaking the Sheetrock, sending a shooting pain up my arm. "I need to get to her, now," I say to no one.
I'm not a religious man. I go to church, but it's not the Jesus kind. But a desperate man will do anything, so I pray. I pray that Wrench knows what he's fucking doing. I pray that Jaz will be okay, vowing that if He keeps her alive then I'll do whatever I have to do to heal her.
Wrench bangs the desk and jabs his fingers at something on the screen.
"Got 'em."
***
The wind whips past me as I lead the guys toward the address that's burned into my brain. Pres, Torch, Whip, and Lady ride behind me. I'm pushing my bike to its limits, knowing each second could be the difference between getting her back and losing her forever.
Dylan has her in a cabin that his mother owned. It was registered under her maiden name, which is why it didn't come up in any of the original searches.
The cabin is a little way out of town. If Wrench hadn't been able to get an exact lock, we could have spent days looking for it. As houses become few and far between, the landscape filling up with trees and hills, the roads become less traveled and harder to ride along. As we finally reach the turn for the laneway that should lead us straight to Jaz, I signal to the boys to pull over. There's no way we can take the bikes down there. Not only because of the potholes and mud, but the noise would take away the element of surprise.
The sun is just starting to peek through the trees, the only sounds around us are birdsong and the squelching of mud. Last night's rainstorm has left the track sodden, making it difficult to navigate.
We climb into the back of the truck, Torch suggested bringing it, in case it's as bad as we're hoping it isn't. He takes the road slowly. Parking as close as he can without being noticed.
We all get out and slowly take the steps up, stopping at the door and listening for any movement inside. I don't hear any voices. I'm not sure how that makes me feel; the lack of sound could mean any number of things I don't want to consider.
Whip picks the lock with tools from his belt. Once it clicks, he turns the handle slowly and I raise my gun as we all step inside. The room is empty, but there's a faint noise coming from elsewhere in the cabin. I hold my fingers to my lips and listen.
A shower.
I wave the boys toward the noise and then point to myself. "Jaz," I whisper. Whip nods and moves out, Lady on his heels, both of them armed and ready. A hand lands on my shoulder.
"Lead the way," Pres says quietly, his eyes looking over my shoulder toward the back of the cabin.
The place is a shithole. The kitchen counters are covered in half-eaten meals, flies swarming around the rotting food. As we move through, we find nothing but years' worth of clutter and dust. The back room is empty except for a hatch in the ceiling.
An attic.
Pres gives me a foot up and I grab the metal hook, pulling down a set of stairs. They catch halfway down and I give a yank, nearly pulling them off their hinges. Pres turns his back to me, gun pointed back in the direction we've just come from. When I pause he says, "Go," and I disappear up the ladder.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. A tangy, iron smell that I know to be blood clings to my nose and I have to cover my face with my shirt. There's a light in the corner, but the light it casts is weak at best. As my eyes adjust, I almost miss her. She's crumpled in a corner, naked, her body twisted at unnatural angles. My stomach contracts violently and I dry-heave, my hand coming to cover my mouth as my eyes water and tears spill out. I've seen some shit, but this . . .
This . . .
I crawl to her on my hands and knees, half afraid to touch her. Dried blood cakes her skin, the flowering bruises already a deep shade of purple. Parts of her scalp are visible where her hair has been ripped from her head.
Fuck.
As my fingers ghost over her throat, looking for a pulse, a loud rasping noise fills the air and her body starts twitching.
She's breathing.
The stairs creak behind me and I turn, gun aimed. Pres emerges, one hand up, a blanket clutched in the other.