Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

Curly wasn’t one to need flowery words or praise, though. He grunted out an “Anything, brother,” then the line went dead.

“Any luck?” Tracker asked from a few feet behind him.

“No. Fuck!” The urge to hurl his phone across the parking garage hit strong, but he needed the damn thing. “Nothing until tomorrow. Dammit.”

This was Deke all over again. Helpless while someone he loved was in danger.

His blood surged through his veins and his fists balled of their own accord. The need for violence rose swift and sharp. Liv had been the one to help him tamp it down, to find a different outlet for his stress and trauma. Fucking her, talking to her, hell, just looking at her grounded him in a way nothing else could.

But now, she was gone on her way to a man who wanted to hurt her.

“Fuck!” he screamed, slamming his fists against his thighs as he bent over, and the world spun out of his control. He could feel it creeping down his spine. In the next few minutes, he was going to lose his shit. He’d freak out on someone who looked at him sideways. Beat the tar out of someone. Anyone.

God, even his brothers weren’t safe.

“Spec?” Lock’s calm voice penetrated his fog, but not enough to erase it. “Can you look at me?”

Scott lifted his gaze. He literally saw red. A haze of red clouded his vision. Maybe he’d burst a blood vessel in his eye. Or perhaps he’d lost it for good. The idea of Olivia suffering was too much for his fractured psyche to handle.

Lock approached with his hands up. “You said there aren’t any flights today?”

Breathing as though he’d just run there from the clubhouse, he could only nod once.

“Maybe Liv couldn’t get one either. Maybe she’s here waiting. Or holed up in a hotel.”

Scott’s spine snapped straight. Christ, Lock could be on to something. “Jesus,” he whispered. The red evaporated, leaving Lock and Tracker clear as day in his sights. “You could be right. Let’s split up. Search for her.”

Tracker clapped him on the back, then took off running.

“Thank you,” he said to Lock, who nodded and then headed in a different direction from Tracker.

Scott ran as well, toward a third area of the airport with his phone at his ear. “C’mon, baby, answer the damn phone.”

Liv’s chipper voicemail picked up on the sixth ring.

“You don’t have to do this, Livy, please don’t do this,” he said after the beep.

He pocketed the phone and then continued into the airport.

Scott searched every area he was permitted to enter. As he ran through the baggage claim, he rammed at least five people with his shoulders and even knocked down a man scanning the arrival-departure screen. A few pissed-off travelers cussed him out, and others mumbled their annoyance, but he didn’t slow.

He couldn’t afford to waste a second.

When he burst into the women’s restroom, a lady at the counter screamed, “What the hell? Get out of here!”

“Liv?” he called. “You in here?”

“Get out!” the woman shrieked.

He ducked back out, then continued to run through baggage claim, weaving through the crowd.

After a solid ten minutes of nothing, his phone rang.

“Liv?” he called into the phone without checking the screen.

“No,” a voice said. Scott slowed and pulled the phone away from his ear. What the hell? “Devos?” he asked as he picked up the pace again. “Not really a good time, man.” Dammit, he’d never have answered if he’d known who was on the other end.

“Listen to me, Spec. This is serious.”

“Hanging up, Devos. This is shit timing.”

As he was about end the call, Devos shouted. “It’s about Olivia.”

Scott stopped dead in his tracks. A woman smacked into his back. “Nice, mister. Just stop right in the middle of the walkway. Asshole,” she grumbled.

He didn’t give two shits who he pissed off. “What about Olivia?” he barked.

Devos lowered his voice. “I’m at the airport. In the private terminal, getting ready to head out of town. There’s a man who just walked out to his plane. Real sketchy, man. He was on his phone, and I heard mention of the Handlers… you specifically. And something about a woman named Olivia. This guy is pissed, man. Thinks you’re fucking his fiancée and was saying some seriously scary shit about what he wanted to do to you. And her.”

Lance. Holy fuck. “Devos, you may have saved my woman’s life.” Scott glanced all around but didn’t see any signs of the private terminal. “I owe you one, man.”

“No, you don’t. I fucked up with Lobo. This is my way of repairing the damage. I’ll meet you at the terminal and tell them you’re my passenger so I can get you through the gate.”

A baggage claim service counter with one attendant wasn’t too far away. “Consider it repaired. I’m on my way.” Scott hung up, then raced toward the baggage counter. “How do I get to the private terminal?” he yelled from ten feet away.