Chapter 25
MAREN
Late the following evening, as I sit in the small office, I stare at the inventory sheets where the numbers are starting to blur together.
I’ve counted just about everything we stock over the course of the day and have nearly completed deciding how much we should have of everything as we transition into summer season. Some orders have already been placed. There are more to do.
But, Lord, keeping my brain engaged has been difficult, because now that Knox has my number, he…
I sigh and then grin like it’s Christmas morning and everything I ever wanted was under the tree.
I pick up the phone and look back at the last few texts he sent.
Knox: Drove past the old boarded-up shoe store. Big front windows. Good light. Could see your paintings in there.
Knox: Every time I think about the first time we fucked, I shiver thinking about how good it felt. It’s like I’m thirteen all over again.
Knox: Don’t like the idea that I’m not gonna sleep with you beside me tonight.
He’s got some club business to attend to. And I’ve liked the space to paint and work and…
The sound of glass shattering echoes through the quiet store. Because the office is in a windowless room in the center of the store, it’s unlikely that whoever smashed the exterior window knows I am in here. But there are footsteps inside and muffled male voices.
Likely the two men who asked about Jackal, because there is no way I go years without trouble living here, only to get a bunch of it in the same week.
On instinct, I grab my keys and phone before I turn off the small lamp to avoid drawing further attention to my location.
The rest of the store is in darkness, and with the office door closed, it’s unlikely they saw any light.
Thankfully, I’d needed a notebook from the shelf behind the door, hence why it was closed.
Otherwise it would have been wide open. Usually, I love the fact there isn’t an internal staircase between the store and the little apartment above because of the separation, especially on my days off. But tonight, I wish there was one.
My heart slams once, so hard, I feel it in my throat.
I glance at the phone in my hand, but even if there were any signal in the office, speaking would give away my location.
I feel my way around the room, relying on years of familiarity to prevent a fall. The cool touch of the old metal filing cabinet with the drawer at the bottom that hasn’t closed properly for the better half of a decade. The smooth edge of my grandfather’s desk.
I could hide beneath it.
Outside, I hear the scrape of something being pushed over. I hope it isn’t the rack containing the old-school glass bottles of marine oil additives.
Shit, I hope they aren’t planning to set fire to it.
“There’s a password,” I hear one of them say.
They must be trying to get into the laptop I keep behind the counter to take the airboat bookings. If they are focused on that, it means they aren’t looking in the direction of the office.
I don’t know what they’re looking for, but they won’t find it on the old laptop that only has boat bookings and employee shift schedules on it.
Which means, they’ll probably start a wider search of the store and look in here.
And given the glass window didn’t stop them breaking into the store, an old door without a lock on it won’t keep them out.
Every movement I make feels terrifyingly loud—the creak of the floorboards, the faint rustle of my shorts. I ease the handle of the door down slowly, holding my breath as I do. I manage to ease it open just enough to see down the short hallway.
Sure enough, through the faint light from the locked laptop screen, I see the silhouettes of the two men. And while the dark makes it hard to be one hundred percent certain, their build is like that of the men who were here before.
So, unless I am exceptionally unlucky enough to have two sets of similar men after me, I am relatively certain it’s the same men.
My heart hammers so hard and fast, I fear my ribs might crack around it.
I tug the door open a little farther, and the hinge creaks. Immediately, I pause, holding my breath for so long that my vision spins.
“What was that?” one of the men says.
They pause, and I duck back out of sight, relying on the darkness of the office.
“You’re imagining things,” the other says. “Keep looking.”
But it’s a reminder.
Whatever my plan is, I need to execute it swiftly.
I run through my options. There’s the doorway that leads to the big storeroom, but that has a roller shutter door, and they’d be on me before I raised it an inch.
The bathroom. It has a window I could get out of. I had it renovated last year. Had a proper door and lock put on it.
If I could just make it across the hallway, I could lock myself in.
And while they are trying to figure out how to get the door open, I could dip out the window.
Thankfully, my apartment keys and my car keys are on the same keychain.
So, if I can get out the window and to my truck, I can make it to safety.
“Check through the shit on the desk,” one of them says.
And I know that’s my moment. I know when I wrote Jackal’s address down in the book, I didn’t write his name next to it, and there are lots of addresses in that notebook. So even if they find the random address, they won’t know for sure it relates to Jackal.
Every nerve in my body screams the same thing: I need to move.
I visualize what’s going to happen a thousand times.
Sprint. Slam. Climb. Drive.
I take a breath.
Then, another.
Then, I run.
My lungs burn, even though it’s a short distance. I slam the bathroom door behind me, locking it even as I hear confused shouts and then, the thud of boots.
The window is ahead of me, and I’m clambering on the seat of the toilet as one of the men throws himself at the door.
“Get the fuck out here,” one of the men shouts.
My palms sweat as I turn the small metal key I leave in the lock and open the window.
Humid night air rushes inside, thick with the smell of salt water and damp wood.
The drop looks a little farther than I’m comfortable with, but I have no other option. I swing one leg over the sill, the wooden frame catching the skin of my thigh. A splinter drives into my palm as I grab the edge to steady myself.
Then, for a terrifying moment, my weight shifts and I’m dangling halfway out of the window with nothing but air beneath my feet.
“Shit—” I cry.
But the men are yelling at each other, slamming into the door so hard, the frame shakes.
When I let go, the half second it takes to hit the ground feels like a minute. The ground jars my bones as I land, yet I manage to catch myself before I face-plant into the dirt. The pain of gravel beneath my feet is enough to remind me I’m barefoot. I’d kicked my sandals off beneath the desk.
But I can’t stop moving. I have to run around the outside of the building to my truck, and they can cut straight through the building to beat me to it.
I suck in a sob as I run, praying that I’m truly smarter than they are.
My truck is parked in my usual spot, farthest away from the store entrance, but I’m closer to it, given my unorthodox exit from the bathroom.
My fingers fumble, finding the fob so I can unlock the doors. When I finally press it, I yank the door open and throw myself into the driver’s seat. The engine turns over on the second try, just as the door to the store bursts open.
The first gunshot shatters my window.
The second hits my door.
I scream but throw the truck into gear.
In my rearview mirror, I see them hurry to their truck to chase me as I spin out of the lot. My cellphone slides across the passenger seat and onto the floor.
Their truck is faster and more powerful than mine, but I have an advantage they don’t: I know these roads like the back of my hand.
My stomach tightens as the truck closes the distance, the beam of light flooding through my back window.
I drive towards town, headed straight for my father’s office, until another thought occurs to me.
There is only one place I can go where they will shoot first and ask questions later. And maybe Knox won’t be happy to see me, but I can play it off that I’m bringing the men he’s seeking to him.
The first nudge of the truck’s bumper against mine causes the back of my vehicle to fishtail.
But sure enough, the Iron Outlaws compound appears through the trees like something out of another world. It might be midnight, but they have floodlights blazing against the dark.
I don’t slow down.
I fly into the lot, bursting straight through their security gate, my truck skidding sideways across the gravel before jerking to a stop near the entrance.
There are bikers outside, looking at their bikes, having a smoke.
But weapons are drawn quickly, and the door to the clubhouse opens and more bikers flood out.
Ridge. Then, Vandal.
Sunny is the first to shout, “It’s Maren Caldwell. Hold your fire.”
I grab for my phone, climb out of the car, and look behind me as the truck rides by. “It’s them,” I cry. “The men you’re looking for.”
Knox reaches me, first, and this time, instead of keeping me at arm’s length, he wraps his arms tightly around me.
I shove him away. One of us should try to remember our pact.
But tears sting my eyes. “It’s…they…the store…Knox. It’s them.”
“What are you all standing around for? Go fucking get them,” he yells. “And let’s bring Pax in. Deal with all these fuckers tonight.”
It’s chaos. Men. Bikes. The roar of engines.
The world moves in a blur around me.
“Come here. I’ve got you,” Knox says.
But I shake my head, pulling away again. “Remember.” The word comes out on a sob.
“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, and pulls me in so firmly, I collapse in tears against Knox’s chest.
He tangles his fingers into my hair. His lips brush the top of my head. “Did they hurt you?”
I shake my head, the scent of leather and whiskey comforting. “I hurt myself…jumping out a…window.”
He steps back at that, cupping my tearstained cheeks, checking for himself whether I’m hurt or not. “I’m fed up with those men targeting you.”
I huff a sob that’s part laughter. “It’s getting old,” I admit.
“Good girl, bringing them to me,” he mutters. “I won’t let them touch you again.”
But beyond his words, reality starts to settle in. I came to his clubhouse and feel the weight of the bikers who didn’t go after the truck, staring.
Watching me.
Watching him.
“Well, this is a fucking turn of events,” Havoc says. I don’t know the man, but I know his road name because of his patch. He never fishes, so he never comes in to buy bait. We’ve crossed paths occasionally in the grocery store, and he glares at me like he is now.
He’s tugging up his jeans and is shirtless. “Who went?” he asks Knox.
“Ridge and Vandal were the first on their bikes. Sunny and Lock were right with them. About five prospects followed after, but they’ll be left behind.”
“And her?” Havoc asks, contempt on his face.
Knox looks down at me. “She’s with me.”