Page 33 of Crowbar

“Spencer’s missing.” My voice was flat, empty of everything except the cold fury vibrating in my bones. “Found his headphones by the back door. His scent leads to the back alley.”

I’d been right there, sitting in my truck and talking to Diesel on the phone. But I hadn’t seen anyone in the parking lot. Glancing to my left, I saw the reason. The other end of the alley spilled onto a street. Someone had snatched my mate right from under my watch.

“Where are you?”

“The Cat Nap pet store on Fifth.”

“Stay put. I’m ten minutes out.” In the background, the sound of motorcycles erupted, engines revving.

The alley stretched in both directions. Left led back toward the street. Right disappeared around the corner of the building toward the parking lot.

I couldn't follow his scent. Not when he'd been taken by car.

“We’ll find him,” Preacher said. “We won’t rest until we do.”

I ended the call, crouched, and covered my head with my arms, wishing I’d pushed for more information about the guy who’d tried to yank Spencer’s arm out.

Gunner bumped my leg, whining softly. I reached down and petted her head. “We’re gonna find him, girl.” She licked my palm, looking up at me like she trusted my word was my bond. “Got the pack heading this way.” Straightening, I walked back inside, Gunner at my heels. Up front, Deb was stocking supplies. As soon as she saw my expression, her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

“Spencer’s gone,” I said.

“What do you mean, he’s gone?” she asked, her brows furrowed.

Just then, I heard a chorus of engines growling and growing closer. Instead of answering her, I walked toward the door.

“What do you mean Spencer’s gone?” she called out. “What’s going on?”

Half a dozen bikes rolled to a stop in front of the store, engines rumbling low before cutting off one by one. I’d never been so glad to see my pack in my life.

Preacher swung his leg over his bike and dismounted, his gaze already locked on me. Diesel and Riot followed.

“Anything?” Preacher asked.

“Nothing.”

A muscle ticked in Preacher’s jaw. He tipped his chin toward the door.

Diesel went inside.

Preacher pulled out his phone and made a call. “Sheriff, I need everything you’ve got on a domestic violence case involving Spencer Winslow.”

I stayed at the curb and watched the street while he talked. Traffic moved through the light at the corner. A sedan slowed then picked up speed and went on. Nothing about it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the gap where his scent had cut off and what that meant.

Preacher ended the call and stepped back beside me. “We’ll have it in a minute.”

Ten agonizing minutes passed before his phone buzzed. He checked it then looked at me. “Ken Meyers. Domestic violence. Last known address is Spencer’s.”

My nostrils flared. The son of a bitch had used my mate’s address.

Deb stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Do you want me to keep her here?” she asked. “I can watch her until you get back.”

“No,” I said. “Thanks anyway.” Spencer was going to need her.

Deb nodded and went back inside.

Preacher turned toward the bikes. “Let’s go.”

I cut across the street, Gunner on my shoulders, and jumped into my truck.