Chaos (Renegade Kings MC, Detroit Chapter #1)

Chapter 1

Rowan

"If you can't count pills faster than that, maybe I’ll need to replace you with someone who can.” Randy looms over my shoulder, his stale coffee-and-cigarettes breath hot against my neck.

I grip the prescription bottle tighter and continue counting atorvastatin tablets. Forty-five, forty-six... I lose count when his hand presses against my lower back.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, starting over.

I’ve learned the best way to deal with him is to show as little reaction as possible.

"You better speed it up. I'm not paying you to daydream." His hand lingers for another excruciating minute before he finally retreats to his office, leaving behind the stench of cheap cologne.

He'll spend the rest of the night watching sports playbacks on his phone while I do all the actual work.

The late shift at Detroit Discount Pharmacy is a special kind of hell, but it pays fifty cents more per hour than the daytime shift, and that extra twenty bucks a week sometimes makes the difference between eating and going hungry.

My feet throb inside my worn sneakers. The left one has a quarter-sized hole in the sole that I've covered with cardboard and duct tape. Every time it rains, my sock ends up soaked halfway through my walk home.

I slide my ancient phone out of my hoodie pocket, checking the time. 12:13 AM. Less than an hour before I can leave. If all goes well, I’ll catch about four and a half hours of sleep before heading to my dog-walking job.

There’s a text notification from Shady Pines Care Facility.

Monthly payment overdue. Please contact us immediately.

My stomach knots into a familiar, tight ball of dread.

I've been stretching every dollar, taking extra shifts whenever I can, but it's still not enough. Gram needs specialized care for her Alzheimer's, and Shady Pines is the only place I can (almost) afford. The place isn’t ideal—staff turnover is high, and it always smells of strong disinfectant that doesn’t quite mask the odor of feces—but they keep her safe, fed, and medicated.

"It's worth it," I remind myself. "I owe her."

My Grandmother raised me after Mom took off with her boyfriend du jour when I was fourteen.

Grams gave me everything she had. Now she doesn't remember who I am most days. She doesn’t remember much of anything.

But I remember. I remember her lessons, her kindness, and I especially remember how she never made me feel unloved or unwanted.

I refuse to abandon her the way Mom abandoned me.

If I can squeeze in another community college class next semester, I might actually finish my certification by this time next year. Then maybe I can get a real pharmacy technician position somewhere with benefits.

If. If. Lots of “ifs” for someone who can’t even pay her current bills.

Finally, after filling the remaining prescriptions and completing inventory, it’s one in the morning. Time to clock out.

“Tomorrow," Randy calls as I gather my things, “wear something more form-fitting. That sweatshirt makes you look like you shop at Goodwill.”

I don't answer. I do shop at Goodwill.

The October chill in Detroit has teeth. As I step outside, adjusting my backpack—the right strap is held on by three oversized safety pins—I slip my earbuds in and pull up the lecture recording from the online class I missed yesterday.

Pharmacology basics. The professor's voice fills my ears as I start the mile-long trek to my apartment.

"The classification of pharmaceutical compounds begins with..."

I tune out a bit, focusing instead on taking the shortcut through the industrial district. It shaves fifteen minutes off my walk, and time is precious. Sleep is precious. Every minute counts.

The streets are pretty much deserted. When I pass the normally empty parking lot of a nondescript warehouse with blacked-out windows, I notice it’s filled with haphazardly parked vehicles.

I pull out one earbud, suddenly alert. A hum emanates from the warehouse. Something’s goin on in there. It sounds like an announcer or an emcee maybe, and a cheering crowd, but it’s all too muffled to determine for sure.

Then I hear voices in the lot outside.

My instincts scream at me to turn around, find another way home. But that would add thirty minutes to my walk, and my body is already running on fumes.

Just keep your head down. Don't make eye contact. Walk quickly. Be invisible.

I've perfected the art of invisibility. It's how I’ve survived these streets.

As I approach, the voices become clearer—angry, threatening. I slow my pace, sticking close to the shadows.

My blood turns to ice as I register the scene. Two rough-looking guys in leather vests are on their knees, heads bowed, and two other scary-looking men are standing over them.

Warning alarms fire in my brain. I should turn back. I should run. But my feet are frozen to the pavement.

Then I see the gun.

It happens so fast—the flash, the sound muffled by a silencer, the first kneeling man slumping forward. The second tries to lunge upward but receives the same treatment.

I need to get out of here, but my lower body won’t cooperate. I just stand there.

The other man holds something that glints under the streetlight. It’s a knife. Holy Mary, it’s a knife. A blackish liquid pools beneath the bodies. I study it for a moment before realizing it’s blood.

The guy with the knife crouches and begins cutting into the chest of one of the victims. The other turns, scanning the area—

His eyes lock with mine.

For a long, suspended moment, we stare at each other. Then his mouth moves, shouting something to his partner, and he raises his gun.

Mercifully, my legs finally take action.

I spin and run for my life—quite literally. Heavy footsteps pound behind me as I sprint down the darkened street, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

I’m short. And kinda chubby. I can't outrun him—not in these shoes, not as exhausted as I am.

I know these streets, though, like the back of my hand. That may be my only advantage.

I veer sharply left, darting between buildings into a narrow alley. The darkness swallows me, but my pursuer's footsteps still echo behind. My lungs burn. I need to lose him.

I see my salvation—another turn just ahead, an alley that will eventually emerge out onto the next street over. I take it, only to find myself facing a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. What the heck? When did they put that up?!

"Shit!" I hiss.

No choice but to double back. I edge back to the main alley. His footsteps grow louder.

I quicken my pace, completely out of breath. As I round another corner, my backpack catches on a rusted metal bar jutting from the wall. I pull, panic rising. The safety pins give way with a pop, and my backpack tumbles to the ground, contents spilling across the dirty pavement.

"No, no, no." My phone, wallet, keys—everything scatters.

The noise behind me is getting closer.

My wallet lies visible in the dim light. I lunge for it, fingers just brushing the faux leather, when a hand grabs my arm, yanking me backward.

"Got you, puta.” His accent is thick, unfamiliar. His grip crushes my bicep, and I let out a little yelp.

In a terror-driven, instinctive movement, I drive my knee upward between his legs with all my strength.

He howls, doubling over. I wrench free and run, abandoning everything on the ground.

My lungs feel ready to burst. I don't know where I'm going anymore, just away. My surroundings blur together until somehow I find myself back where I started. In the parking lot of the warehouse, near the *gulp* bodies.

I press myself against a wall, trying to control my ragged breathing.

The second killer is still there, still crouched, still doing whatever he was doing to the bodies with his knife. From this angle, I can see the victims better—leather vests, tattooed arms.

Oh my god! My hand clamps over my mouth to stifle a scream.

My mind races frantically. I can't go back. I can't go forward. I scan my surroundings, desperate for another option, any option. Is there a hiding place?

A large dumpster sits against the wall of the warehouse, not twenty feet from me. It's disgusting, probably crawling with vermin and god only knows what kinds of filth, but right now it's my only recourse.

I dart across the distance, keeping close to the shadows and praying the killer is too focused on his grisly task to notice. It works.

When I reach the dumpster, I quietly lift the lid. The stench of decay hits me like a gut punch. It smells like there’s something dead in there, but survival trumps disgust.

With a strength borne of adrenaline, I pull myself up and over the edge, lowering my body into the putrid darkness where I nestle among trash bags of rotting food, broken glass, and things I don't want to identify.

With trembling hands, I slide a piece of cardboard over myself, creating a hiding place beneath the filth.

Outside, voices. Spanish, I think. Angry tones.

"?La encontraste?" A harsh question.

"Se escapó. La perra me pateó." The man I kneed in the nuts sounds pained.

They say a few more words I don't understand.

Tears stream down my face as I try to control my breathing. I keep gagging, but I force the nausea down. Something skitters over my hand. A cockroach? A spider? A rat?

Still, I don't move. Don't make a sound. Don't breathe too loudly.

Minutes pass like hours as I cower among the refuse, hoping this dumpster won’t end up becoming my coffin.