Mitch is beyond pissed, and I can’t blame him. We know about their Operation Strike. We’ve known for months. And we honest to god planned to stay out of it. We’ve been wanting to put the King Street Boys out of action for years, but having the Sydney police do it for us is just the cherry on our cupcake. Except they got Jake involved. And now Mac. And that is not okay.
Mitch hangs up on me. I shove my phone into the pocket of my jeans and look sideways to Luke. We’re stopped at a red light, both of us seated on our bikes and helmets in our laps. “She’s already there.”
His curse is loud and pained. “Fuck!”
The crescendo of what sounds like a thousand Harleys roar from behind us. We both turn. The Sentinels, my brothers in arms, are building. Bikes are coming in from the left and right to form a giant convoy of retribution as they thunder down the street toward us.
I get on the phone for one last, quick phone call.
Casey answers with “What the hell is going on?”
“War,” I answer, my voice terse. “And Mac is caught right in the middle of it.”
TRAVIS VALENTINE
I wake to the buzzing ringtone of my phone, and our giant Rhodesian Ridgeback, Rufus, licking my face. “What the …” I push him away with a sluggish hand. He returns. “Stop it.”
“It’s because you’ve got a chocolate handprint on your cheek,” Quinn mumbles from beside me, her face smushed into the pillow.
“How the—”
“Sam,” she answers before I can even finish the question, referring to our foster son. He should be tucked up in bed at this early hour but with consciousness now thrust upon me, I can hear cartoons from the living room. He’s up and clearly has the blessed sense not to come in and wake us. God, I love that kid.
I swipe a hand across my cheek. It comes away with smears of chocolate and dog slobber. “Oh gross.”
“Don’t you dare,” Quinn warns as I go to wipe my palm across the sheets. Her face remains smushed into the pillow.
“How did you even—”
“Because I’m a mother now. We see everything.”
My phone blares on as Rufus comes at me again, tongue lolling and big eyes wounded because I’m repeatedly shoving him away. Chocolate is bad for dogs, right? But he’s hardly going to drop dead at my feet after a few licks. I eye him carefully, holding his massive head back as that giant tongue comes for my face. He doesn’t look ill.
Quinn rolls over, her big brown eyes blinking open, cheeks flushed a deep pink, and the imprint of our bedsheets lining half her face. Her white-blonde hair is a fluffy cloud of fairy floss around her head after she curled it for the party last night with something that resembled a giant stainless steel dildo.
“Are you gonna get that?” she mumbles.
“Ugh.” My eyes slide to the mammoth clock on the wall. It’s a round marble affair that required both Casey and I to lift in place. It’s secured with serious bolts, but I still eye it every morning with trepidation. The little hand points to the five and the big hand is on the twelve. Who the hell is calling me at five a.m.? On a Sunday no less. My one sleep-in of the week.
“It’s not going to fall.”
How does she even know I’m glaring at the clock? “It will. One day it’s going to come crashing down at the same time Sam walks past and it will crush every bone in his little body.”
“It’s not that heavy.” She rolls over, used to my anxiety when it comes to our soon-to-be adopted son. I can’t fathom how parents can remain calm when their kid is one step away from being snatched or falling down one of those giant sinkholes that Grace keeps talking about. They are just that vulnerable. Anything could happen. Parenting requires constant vigilance. Whenever I lose sight of Sam for a single moment, a freaky panic overtakes me. Does it ever get easier?
“It would only dent his head or something,” Quinn adds.
My phone has not stopped its incessant ringing. I reach for it. “We should make him wear a helmet.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
The screen shows it’s Casey Daniels, my best mate. “I’m not,” I argue as I hit the answer key and put the phone to my ear. “What’s up?” I ask him as Rufus comes at me again, undeterred. With only one hand free, I can’t hold him off and he gets another lick in.
“Get in the car,” Casey replies, his voice grim and leeching urgency. “I’ll explain as you drive.”
I don’t hesitate.
GRACE PATERSON
I tug my legs through the pair of skinny jeans I left on the bedroom floor in the early hours of the morning. Last night’s party had left me with only enough energy to slide them off and leave them crumpled in the corner before I crawled into bed. I do the zipper and snatch my phone from the bedside table. There’s no time to lament on how the denim gapes at my butt cheeks. Cancer kicked me to the kerb. I beat it back and won, but there’s still a long road ahead. And that includes food. So much food we’re going to run out of room in Casey’s loft to store it all. My former model management agency would love the look I’m rocking right now, which disgusts me. Emaciated is always the new black and it’s not healthy. I’m longing to build some muscle on my frame and a nice round booty.
I scroll my phone contacts in a panicked motion. Names roll down the screen so fast I have to scroll back up. Who do I call first? There’s no time to think about it. I pick and dial.
My brother Henry answers within seconds and my stomach drops with guilt. He’s been like this ever since he heard about my diagnosis—hovering like a mother hen, accessible within a moment’s notice, attending appointments, blending me kale smoothies that have me retching more than the chemotherapy does. After all those years of travelling for work, it warms me to have this close relationship with my brother again. It just sucks huge hairy nipples that I had to get sick for it to happen.
“Everything okay?” he asks, sounding equal parts anxious and husky with sleep.
I don’t wish to cause him any alarm because I’m not an alarmist, but if there is ever a time to become one it’s now. “Mac is pregnant,” I blurt out, adding gossipmonger to my rapidly expanding repertoire of negative personality traits. “And you know that Jake is gone but Mac took off after him. Kelly called Casey and he was talking so loud I overheard the whole thing. Jake has been abducted and Mac is caught up in it somehow and something about Operation Strike and a shit show. I don’t know!” I cry, throwing my free hand up in the hair with agitation as I pace. I should be looking for shoes to put on my feet, but I’m so frazzled I don’t think I even know what shoes are. “Something is going down, Henry Bear. I don’t know what it is, but I’m scared.”
“Holy shit.”
“Right?” I continue pacing on legs made of jelly. Mitsy snaps at my ankles and I do an abrupt turn to throw her off course. The psychotic white ball of fluff that barely resembles a dog wants breakfast, and I don’t have time for her demands right now.
“Abducted by who?”
“The King Street Boys,” I answer, having no idea who these assholes are.
“Holy shit,” he mutters again, his voice all-knowing. Clearly he’s well-informed on who they are. “Does Evie and Quinn know any of this?”