004 Ex on the Hunt

Marco Delgado didn’t do panic. Not usually.

But the blinking red dot on his phone—the one that was supposed to show Ashley’s location—was gone. Vanished like smoke.

He sat in the dim corner booth of La Sirena Cantina, a half-empty glass of mezcal sweating on the table, and stared at the blank map. Outside, the Sonoran night hummed with heat and distant traffic, neon signs buzzing in the haze. Inside, the cantina was loud with laughter and cumbia, but Marco heard none of it.

She was supposed to be halfway to Phoenix by now, back in the safe, boring life she’d chosen over him. He’d even told himself he was fine with it, that letting her go was the mature thing.

But Ashley didn’t just disappear.

He replayed their last conversation in his head. Her voice had been steady but cold… I can’t live in your world, Marco. I won’t.

His jaw clenched. She had no idea how deep that world really went, or how many enemies would gladly use her to get to him.

He traced a finger over the condensation ring on the table, an old habit from the days when he used to plan runs on napkins. In his mind, routes and safehouses mapped themselves across the wood grain… dusty backroads, cartel checkpoints, rival biker territory. He hated that part of him—the strategist who could already see three moves ahead—but it was the only part of him that might keep her alive. The music in the cantina surged with a fast accordion riff, laughter rising and falling, but all he heard was the phantom echo of gunfire from years past. He remembered bodies in shallow graves and promises made to ghosts.

Ashley had walked away from all that; he’d let her, thinking distance would protect her. Now, has distance betrayed her?.

A figure slid into the booth across from him. Santiago Vega—Santi to everyone but his mother—wore a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing a jagged scar down his forearm. His dark eyes flicked to the phone, then back to Marco. “Lost her?”

Marco didn’t answer. Santi poured himself a shot from Marco’s bottle, uninvited. “GPS doesn’t just vanish. Someone killed the signal.”

Marco leaned forward, voice low. “She had my spare. Nobody outside the family even knew she was on the road.”

Santi raised a brow. “Nobody except the Fangs. And maybe Alvarez.”

At the mention of the cartel boss’s name, Marco’s stomach turned. Alvarez had been sniffing around for months, looking for leverage. Ashley could be leveraged.

Santi swirled his shot lazily, but his shoulders were stiff. “Alvarez asked about her again last week. Said he was ‘concerned for her safety.’” He sneered. “When that bastard starts worrying about your girlfriend, it means he’s already drawn the target on her back.”

Marco’s grip tightened on the phone. Images flashed—Alvarez’s cold grin, the night they’d split a shipment and a body count, the whispered rumors that the cartel was bleeding territory to the Iron Fangs. A stolen woman would be the perfect excuse to start a war.

The mezcal burned going down as Marco finished his drink, but it didn’t dull the dread crawling up his spine. He could almost see Alvarez’s men already—dusty SUVs rolling out, radios crackling with orders, and Ashley’s frightened face caught in their headlights.

Santi downed the shot and set the glass down carefully. “You warned her what would happen if she left?”

“I warned her enough.” Marco’s hands curled into fists on the table. “She thought I was bluffing.”

Santi’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen, then slid it across to Marco. A grainy photo filled it—security cam footage from a dusty roadside gas station. Ashley’s car sat at a pump. And behind her, blurred but unmistakable, were two bikes. Colors faded, but Marco recognized the patch on the leather cuts. Vipers MC.

The sight of the Vipers colors dragged a curse from his lips. Memories flooded back—gun-running disputes on desert roads, tense standoffs where the Vipers had watched him down a rifle sight but hadn’t pulled the trigger. They were dangerous, unpredictable, but not reckless enough to hand her over. Maybe.

“Could be worse,” Santi said, reading Marco’s face. “The Fangs would’ve dumped her in the desert. The Vipers might just keep her breathing.”

Marco slammed the table hard enough to rattle the bottle. “Breathing isn’t good enough.” He shoved the phone back. “Get the truck. And tell Alvarez nothing. If he smells weakness—”

Santi cut him off. “You’re already weak. She’s out there on her own, Delgado. You left a hole big enough for the whole desert to drive through.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. A drunk at the bar laughed too loudly..The cantina’s noise felt a world away from the razor-thin line they were walking. Marco stared at his reflection in the dark window; a man who’d built an empire on smuggling and intimidation, now undone by a single missing woman. He hated what he saw.

Marco stood, towering over the table, his leather jacket creaking. “I’ll fix it.” His voice was a low growl. “And if Alvarez finds out first, I’ll put him in the ground.”

Santi smirked faintly but there was no humor in his eyes. “You’ll need more than words. The Fangs have been sniffing around your routes for weeks. Somebody is feeding them intel.”

Marco’s mind flashed to the old warnings—the whispers about a leak, a rat inside his own crew. Maybe Ashley’s disappearance wasn’t just bad luck. Maybe it was a message.

He reached for his phone again, fingers flying over contacts. One by one, he sent coded pings to his men—checkpoints to sweep, routes to block, questions to ask without drawing attention. The network he’d built over years would move silently tonight, like a snake through dry grass. But even as he moved, he knew the desert was wide, and enemies were everywhere.

He slid a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, grabbed his phone, and stalked out into the night.

The desert wind hit him like a furnace, but it barely registered. His world had just shifted—again.

Under the buzzing neon, Marco paused, scanning the horizon where the highway bled into darkness. Somewhere out there, Ashley was riding with outlaws, and Alvarez’s cartel wouldn’t hesitate to hunt her down if they caught a scent.

His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting second, he saw her face—not angry, not afraid, but smiling like she used to, sunlight on her hair, back when they believed escape was possible. That memory hardened into resolve. He wouldn’t let Alvarez touch her. He wouldn’t let anyone. The desert might swallow secrets, but it wouldn’t swallow her.

Marco flexed his hands, knuckles cracking. He’d find her first.

He always did.