AUDRA #2
Casino noise floods in, slot machines, laughter, the low thrum of a thousand people pretending they're winning.
And there. Unobtrusive, but dressed in expensive dark suits, two of Gabe's floor security, big guys in dark suits that I recognize.
I don't know if they're traitors too or not, but I've been taken before at gunpoint, and I'm not about to let that happen again without a fight. I suck in a breath and scream.
"HELP! HE'S GOT A GUN! LOU?—"
Louie's fist hits me over the head so hard, I see stars. My knees buckle. His grip clamps down on my elbow, dragging me forward. But it's too late. Heads turn. A woman in a glittering dress gasps. The two men's heads snap toward us, hands already going for their weapons. Chaos erupts.
Shouts. People scatter. The first gunshot cracks from one of the security men, silenced, but the sound still punches through the noise.
Louie shoves me sideways, using my body as a shield while he returns fire.
The elevator doors try to close; he jams his foot in them.
Glass shatters somewhere behind us. A slot machine explodes in sparks. Screams rise like a wave.
I twist, elbowing him hard in the ribs, fighting desperately, viciously, no rules.
My knee connects with his thigh. He grunts but doesn't let go.
Another guard lunges for us. Louie fires twice, quick, precise.
The man drops. Louie's partner shoots the first guard, but more come from all sides.
In the madness, Louie drags me backward through a service door I never would have noticed, staff only, hidden behind a fake palm.
His partner stays behind. The casino noise cuts off the second the door slams shut.
We're in a narrow concrete corridor. Emergency lights buzz overhead.
He's breathing harder now, but his grip is iron.
"Stupid bitch," he mutters, yanking me forward. "Keep moving."
I stumble, but I keep fighting—kicking, twisting—until he slams me face-first into the wall and zip-ties my wrists behind my back so tight the plastic bites skin.
The gun stays pressed to my temple the whole time.
We move fast after that. Down a utility stairwell, out a loading dock I've never seen, into a black SUV waiting in the alley.
No one stops us. The shootout upstairs is still echoing through the building, drawing every eye in the wrong direction.
The drive is a blur. I'm shoved into the back seat, zip-ties now around my ankles too.
Louie doesn't speak. The city lights streak past, then give way to darker streets, leading into a part of Vegas no tourists ever visit.
The landscape is eerily familiar. My stomach clenches.
The SUV slows and turns into a familiar cracked parking lot, and my stomach drops like a stone.
No.
No.
No.
It's been over six years, but it looks exactly the same.
The same peeling paint on the cinderblock walls, the same neon sign that only ever says BAR because nobody ever bothered to give it a name.
Rows of bikes are parked up front like sleeping beasts, Harleys, mostly, with the occasional custom chopper.
Razor's crew. The same dive bar they've always used as their clubhouse.
My heart is hammering so hard I feel it in my teeth. Every bump in the road jolts the fear deeper, but now it's laced with something even worse: recognition.
This is how it happens. This is how people disappear.
I've watched it before. People dragged in, never to be seen again.
Back then, I thought I was badass. Now I can only shake my head over the stupid kid I was.
The more pressing question, though, is how the hell does Razor have the resources to have me brought here? To have Gabe's own men betray him?
Louie cuts the zip ties around my ankles before he hauls me out of the SUV by my bound wrists, and my bare feet hit the gravel. He marches me straight through the front door like I'm nothing more than delivered cargo.
Inside, the smell hits me first: stale beer, cigarette smoke, leather, and old piss.
The same jukebox is playing some old country song in the corner.
A handful of Razor's men look up from their drinks, and some eyes light up with recognition.
Louie doesn't stop. He drags me through the bar and into the back room, the one I remember all too well.
The office. A dingy space with a desk, a ratty couch, and chains bolted to the wall for when they needed to make a point.
Razor is slouched on a couch, a girl, probably no more than fifteen, kneels in front of him, about to suck his cock.
"What the hell?" Razor pushes the girl to the side, zipping his pants and lunging up in one move. His eyes land on me.
"Well, well, well," he drawls. "If it isn't my favorite little runaway."
Louie shoves me forward. "El Recaudador is collecting a debt. Make contact with Gabriel D'Amato. Make it clear: she dies, or he does. He has one hour to make up his mind."
Razor's eyes rake over me, slow and leering, taking in the clinging, sweat-soaked shirt, the fresh marks on my neck from Gabe's mouth.
"You gave me quite the chase back then, Audra.
Too bad I don't like older broads." He stands and circles me like a shark, while the girl rises from the floor, glaring at me, reminding me too much of myself.
"Still got that fire in your eyes, though. Always did like that about you."
Before I can react, his hand cracks across my face, hard enough to snap my head sideways. The sting blooms instantly. He hits me again, backhand this time, splitting my lip.
"That's for running away from me, bitch."
I taste blood. My cheek throbs. But I lift my chin anyway, refusing to cower.
Razor laughs low. "I'll have my men fuck you raw while I sit back and enjoy the show. Been a long time since I had something pretty to break in."
"She stays alive," Louie cuts in flatly. "That's El Recaudador's terms."
"Fuck the Collector," Razor snarls, but he takes the phone Louie hands him anyway.
"Tell D'Amato he's got one hour," Louie advises.
They tie me to the chair, zip ties around my wrists and ankles, and another across my chest, tight enough that breathing is difficult.
Razor dials and puts the phone on speaker, holding it up so the camera can see me clearly. It only rings once before Gabe's voice comes through, sharp, already on edge.
"Who the fuck is this?"
Razor grins. "You don't know me, but I have someone who I've been told means something to you."
He turns the phone so Gabe can see me. I scream the second I know he's watching.
"Gabe—no! No, don't come! They'll kill you—please, don't do this!"
Louie's hand cracks across my face again, harder this time. Pain explodes through my cheekbone. I taste fresh blood.
Gabe's roar comes through the speaker like thunder, raw, furious, broken. "AUDRA! Touch her again, and I'll skin you alive, you piece of shit! Let her go right fucking now!"
I thrash against the ties like a banshee, screaming until my throat burns. "Gabe, please—don't! I can't watch you die! Not like Pete—not like him! Don't come here! They'll kill you!"
Tears are streaming down my face now, mixing with blood from my split lip.
I'm yanking so hard against the zip ties that the plastic cuts into my wrists, but I don't stop.
I can't. This isn't going to end well. I have no idea who El Recaudador is, but Razor doesn't seem impressed by the name.
He's too arrogant, too sure of himself. He's always been that way.
I can't lose Gabe the same way I lost Pete. I won't survive it. The realization hits me like a load of bricks. If Pete's death devastated me, Gabriel's will destroy me. I know it.
Razor just laughs, low and ugly, watching me fight like it's entertainment. "One hour, D'Amato. Come alone, or she dies screaming. Your choice."
Flea walks in, doing a small double-take when he sees me, and for a split second, worry crosses his features. Then he walls himself off and turns his attention back to Razor, who ends the call before turning to me. "Now, how about you and I get reacquainted?"
"You can't touch her until D'Amato gets here and is dead," Louie warns.
"I don't know who the fuck you are, but your screeching is beginning to irritate me." Razor nods at Flea. Without flinching, Flea pulls out a gun and shoots Louie, who, even in death, looks stunned.
"Who was that anyway?" Flea asks.
Razor shrugs. "How the fuck would I know? Some errand boy for El Recaudador."
Flea blanches. He was always the smarter of the two and should by all rights be the boss of the MC. Fact is, he's smart enough to stay out of the line of fire the title brings with it. He chooses to have Razor think himself in charge when, in reality, most of the plans and executions are his ideas.
"It's not a good idea to piss El Recaudador off," he warns.
"I've waited too long to have my revenge on this bitch who thought she could run out on me. Me." He yells the last word and slaps me once again across the head. My ear stings and rings from the impact.
"There's a reason people do as the Collector says," Flea reiterates, looking me over. "More importantly, what are you to D'Amato? And how did you get into El Recaudador's crosshairs?"
Good question. I'm wondering that too. On top of the other hundreds of questions running through my mind.
Each one overwritten by one simple truth.
I won't survive anything happening to Gabe.
I'm terrified he'll take the deal and trade his life for mine.
No matter how my mind spins this, I can only see one possible outcome, and in it, we're both dead.