Christ. No wonder she needed Talia to find her dates.

• • •

I wasn’t able to shake Sadie until nearly three in the morning. The good news was I managed to get the Princess of Puke home without her falling along the way. She’d even sobered up a bit, probably because none of the booze managed to stay in her for long.

Fucking hell, but the club owed me for this one in a big way.

I got back to the hotel first, so I settled in to watch some TV and wait for Gage. He showed up around four a.m., looking rough.

“Have fun with Talia?” I taunted softly, sitting up to grab my boots. Still a lot of work ahead of us for the night—Hands was waiting.

“Fuck off.”

“Did you know they call Sadie ‘the Sprayer’?”

Gage shook his head, and he had the grace to look sheepish. “Only met her once before, and she wasn’t that drunk. Sorry about that—I had no idea what you were in for.”

I nodded, accepting his apology.

“What’s the story with Hands?” he asked.

“Took him home with the prospect, so we know where he lives now. We can go over there and talk to him, then bag him up for Rance. Nice to have a witness that I left him safe and sound hours ago. Nothing to connect me when he disappears. You ready to go?”

Gage sighed, reaching for the mini-fridge. He pulled out a Red Bull, offering it to me silently. I shook my head, knowing the adrenaline would wake me up once we got to work on our victim. Hopefully he’d be alert enough to talk. Gage popped the can open and chugged it.

“Talia tire you out, old man?”

He flipped me off, then grabbed a backpack and pulled out a snub-nosed pistol.

“Let’s go.”

• • •

Ten minutes later we were driving toward Hands’s trailer in a little SUV Gage produced out of nowhere. I wasn’t sure how he got it and I sure as shit wasn’t going to ask. I also didn’t ask about the tarp, the duct tape, the two metal bats, or the pliers—I trusted he knew what he was doing and that he hadn’t left a trail behind us.

Hopefully there wouldn’t be any complications, but if there were, our cover was that I’d lost my phone and we’d come out to look for it. I’d mentioned it to Sadie, and she’d even helped me hunt for it as we left the party.

“Nice place,” Gage said dryly as we pulled to a stop. No lights on inside, no signs of life at all.

“Fuck, I hope he’s not dead or something,” I said as we walked toward the door.

“Nah, he didn’t hit that hard. You take point, I’ll cover.”

Hands didn’t answer the door when I knocked, but I’d left it unlocked. Opening it slowly, I saw the fucker was still laid out on the couch, sleeping like a baby. A really ugly, Nazi baby.

I’d expected more of a challenge.

“Inside,” I told Gage. He followed me in, keeping his gun close as he did a quick search of the trailer. I wasn’t carrying these days—that’d be a one-way trip back to Cali if they found it. My parole officer might be on the club payroll but he wasn’t a miracle worker.

Gage came back into the living room, then jerked his chin toward our target. You ready?

Yeah, I told him with a nod, taking up a position out of his line of fire, but close enough I could jump the fucker if he tried to pull something stupid.

“Wake up, asshole,” Gage said. Hands didn’t move. Shit, did he have brain damage or something? The fall had knocked him out . . . That’d suck. I mean, it wasn’t like the guy had much of a future ahead of him or anything—not after what he’d done to Bolt—but we needed answers first.

“Hands—we’re talkin’ to you,” I said, kicking the couch. The man stirred, frowning as he opened his eyes. I clocked the instant he saw the gun pointed at him, because his entire body jerked before going very still. Handsy-boy might’ve been sleeping before, but he was sure as shit awake now.

“Oh fuck,” he said, staring at Gage. Guess that solved the question of whether he’d recognize him. “Fuck!”

In an instant, Hands launched himself across the room toward Gage, obviously aware he wouldn’t be talking his way out of this one. I jumped for him, tackling him before he could get close. There was no real question who’d win, of course. I was a big guy, and the little rat didn’t stand a chance. That didn’t stop him from fighting like his life depended on it, which made sense. It did.

We scrabbled across the floor, crashing into the coffee table. I heard the sound of something breaking, which sucked because you don’t want to leave a trail at times like this. Now we’d have to torch the place. That pissed me off, so when I got the chance I let him have it, shoving my knee hard into his balls.

Hands screamed, going limp as I straddled him, catching the front of his shirt to jerk his head up.

“Your call how bad this needs to be,” I snarled. “Play nice and it won’t hurt so much.”

He answered me with a head-butt and my nose crunched. Grunting, I slammed his head down into the floor, then caught him across the cheek with a full-power punch. Sweet fire tore through my knuckles, balancing the pain of my nose and clearing my mind. I hit him two more times, then thumped his head against the thin carpet before I realized Gage was shouting.

“Jesus, Painter! He’s out again—let it go!”

I turned to glare at him, snarling.

“Stop,” Gage said, his voice like ice. It cut through the haze and I dropped my arm.