Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
KYRA
“You look real familiar,” the guy says. He wears a leather vest, but the colors are all wrong. I don’t need to see the back to know he’s not one of the Kings. “Why is that?”
I back away from his whiskey breath. “I guess you must have me confused with someone else.”
“Don’t think he does.” A second man shepherds me with quick movements, pushing me toward a side alley and blocking my escape.
Fuck it. I thought I’d be real damn clever when it seemed the bikers just passed through, and head back to the safety of the council offices. Instead, I’ve managed to walk my ass smack into a group of men who quite clearly try not to be seen if they can help it.
“I don’t know any of you, so we can’t have met before.” I turn in a slow circle in the mouth of the alley and count four of these fuckers.
One of them turns toward his bike, parked out of view of the street, and I catch sight of the three-headed dog snarling on his back. Shit, shit, double shit. As suspected, they’re Devil’s Breed. Why didn’t they carry on through with the rest of them? Why did they get left behind?
“I’ll leave you gentlemen to your day.” I take a step backward toward the street, then another, and come smack up against someone who smells of cigarettes and sweat.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Now you’re here, you’ll have to keep us company until we’re ready to leave.” He circles around to face me, his acne-scarred skin weathered and dry, age showing its effect. “Couldn’t have you run off to tell your old man we’re here, could we?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s why Sneak knows you. You’re the Sheriff’s daughter. Although,” he says as he drags his leery gaze down my body. “You’ve grown up a lot since I saw you last.”
“Nope, that ain’t it,” the man now known as Sneak says. “I know her from somewhere else.”
The guy at his bike turns back to rejoin the party, zip ties in his hands. “Just a precaution, precious.”
“Oh, get fucked.” I chop the side of my hand in the pockmarked guy’s throat and turn to run as he splutters for air.
“Mine!” Someone hollers, feet thumping the ground behind me.
I make it halfway back to the street, packaging tangled in my feet from where it’s spilled out of the dumpster.
The shop signage at the edge of the pavement is mere feet away when my pursuer crashes into the back of me, and my feet leave the ground.
His arms band tight around my waist, my hands rendered useless against my sides.
I kick back, curling my heel up to hit air—even my legs are no use against the guy.
Fuck.
“If you behave, we’ll treat you real good,” he murmurs in my ear as he carries me back to the other three. “Start screaming, and I’ll make sure you’ll fuckin’ cry tears of blood every time you see zip ties from now on.”
Awesome. The jerk promises to give me PTSD. Well, joke’s on him. I’ve got it already.
“Tug her hands to the front,” the slimy guy with the ties instructs the pockmarked dude.
He steps forward, analyzing me from the way his gaze flicks over my body. It’s not predatory or sexual. It reminds me of how ranchers assess cattle before buying them at auction.
His hands are cold, which seems strange on a warm fall day. He grabs ahold of my hands and jerks them forward, pinning my palms together as the slimy asshole binds my wrists. I wince when the edge of the plastic bites, yet refrain from making a sound. Fuck them. I won’t give that satisfaction.
“Ankles too,” the pockmarked guy orders. Must be the boss. “Considering she’s shown she likes to run.”
I use the minute it takes the slimy one to bind my ankles to drink in as much about these fuckers as I can.
I know Sneak’s name, and the slimy guy who has the ties is Medicine Man, reading the badge on his chest. But I can’t see what the vest says on the guy at my back, or the pockmarked dude, since he faces away to light a cigarette.
“How long are you likely to be?” I ask. “So I can rearrange my calendar.”
“Cute,” Pocky says, puffing out an enormous cloud of smoke. “She has attitude.”
“What do you expect when her daddy is a cop?”
“Really don’t see how that correlates,” I tell Sneak.
“All cops are smartass assholes,” Medicine Man gripes. “Thought you’d know that, growing up with one.”
“Thought you’d know that this isn’t a great idea, too, but hey. Here we are.”
The fourth guy dumps me on an upturned milk crate. The plastic bites into my ass. I glance up into his eyes that are devoid of life as he snarls, “It’d be a good idea to keep your mouth shut.” This doesn’t seem to be a threat, more a piece of friendly advice.
I glance over his shoulder at the way Medicine Man eyes me up, the pocky guy now messaging someone, his badge still out of view. My captor wanders away, his back turned toward me. Blond hair, tattoos of insects on his hands… I catalog the details in case I never see his badge either.
Pocky takes a few firm strides toward the mouth of the alley. “We’ve got vultures circling.”
What the fuck does that mean? I eye the back entrance to Beryl’s craft shop and wonder how hard I’d have to elbow it for her to hear and come help.
Although at sixty-five, I don’t want to risk her safety by drawing her out into this.
Probably best to deal with it yourself. Not that I have any bright ideas yet on how to do that.
They want me to stay under control while they do whatever it is they’re here for. But then what? Do I honestly think they’ll just let me go?
“Dozer will bring the van around when he’s done,” the dead-eyed blond tells the crew.
I squint a little at his name badge, yet the fucking thing is stitched in black thread on a black background, which makes it near impossible to read. Clever.
“What for?” Sneak asks.
Bless his ignorance. Pocky glares at the kid, putting him in his place.
I sigh and slump against the cool brick wall of the store.
I can’t imagine Pocky would be any good in a chase or Medicine Man.
So, if I can get past both of them, I really only need to get a head start on Sneak and the dead-eye dude.
I test the binds around my ankles, yet the fucking things are tied tight.
I can’t take a small step, let alone hope to break free and run.
Medicine Man has used two lengths to create an intertwined pair of figure eights.
I’m not going anywhere fast, not until I find something sharp to wear the plastic down.
The four men hang about in silence, seemingly killing the time. Surely not just for this van, though? What did I interrupt when I ran in here?
Pocky leans against what must be his bike, head hung, and eyes closed as he waits.
Medicine Man continues to eyeball me, his cigarette getting smaller and smaller.
Sneak sits on a crate a few feet from mine, shredding a strip of packaging paper into tiny squares that he flicks into the alley. Dead-Eyes works his phone.
None of them seem to be in any great hurry.
I lean forward as though to stretch my back and steal a look down the alley toward the road. What was this vulture they talked about? Is Dad around? And if so, how can I get his attention without these fucks knowing?
As though on cue, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Thank the stars I put the darn thing on silent at work and forgot to turn it back on; otherwise, I guarantee these morons would confiscate it when they realized their mistake.
The phone stills, and yet, the men still whittle away the time.
It vibrates again. Damn it. There’s nothing I can do. The taunt of a lifeline useless against my hip, torture.
“How much longer?” Sneak asks.
I could kiss his whiskey face.
“Any minute now,” Pocky says without opening his eyes.
Dead-Eyes stares at the mouth of the alley, also, pushing off the box he leaned against to stalk toward the street.
I still can’t make out his name.
“You know,” I say to Medicine Man. “It might be easier if you just ask me instead of staring at me until the answer comes to you.”
He smirks. “You are familiar.”
“I’m so thrilled.”
“Where have we seen you before?”
I glance at Sneak, expecting him to stare at me, also, considering he started this whole thing. But to my surprise, he stares at the ground as though he hopes Medicine Man will drop it. He knows. He’s remembered where he’s seen me before.
I shuffle around to face him and lean closer to whisper, “What’s the answer?”
He peeks up at me and then resumes staring at the ground. His cheeks grow rosy.
He’s embarrassed, which means… Oh shit. They know me from there. Damn.
I turn to face Medicine Man again, also hoping he’ll drop it. My phone vibrates a third time, making my heart grow even heavier.
The door to Pocky’s right cracks open with a loud squeak of the hinges, and the men all snap to attention.
I mentally map the storefronts and try to work out which store that leads into.
Don’t need to think too hard when the person steps into the alley—Davis Anderson.
The hell? He’s one of the most vocal anti-bike club protestors at the town meetings, quick to rally his cause at church until Pastor Moore shuts him down, too.
“I’ve got a couple of minutes before people might notice I’ve gone, so cut to the chase,” he snaps at Pocky.
I look at Davis, and then at Pocky, and back. Surely not.
“Thursday,” Pocky tells him. “Seven.”
Seven what? In the morning? Night?
“That’s manageable,” Davis responds, lifting a hand to rub at his ear the same way I watched Pocky do a few minutes ago.
The round face, same receding hairline, similar sunken eyes… They’re goddamn related. Brothers, I’d say.
“How long?” he asks.
Pocky turns to look at Dead-Eyes for an answer, which draws Davis’s attention to me.
His eyes widen to the point they’re damn near not sunken anymore, and he visibly panics, hands moving for the door behind him, feet shuffling on the spot.
“What the hell, Pits?” Well, that figures. “What have you got her for?”
“Caught her snooping around.”
“How could I be snooping when I didn’t know you were here?” I snap back. Fucker blaming me as though he’s the goddamn victim…
“You know who she is, right?”
Pits opens his mouth to answer, yet Medicine Man beats him to it, snapping his fingers as he exclaims, “Blue Babylon! I knew I recognized you.”
Sneak groans, head hanging even lower between his shoulders.
“Blue what?” Davis’s face scrunches as though the bikers have gone mad.
“Fuckin’ Sneak jerks off to her on OnlyFans all the time,” Medicine Man continues.
I ponder how hard it might be to cut out a man’s tongue.
“She doesn’t look it now,” he says, frowning at my loose pants and T-shirt, “but she’s got a bangin’ body under all that.”
“Is that so?” Pits says, regarding me with a whole new level of unwelcome interest. “Is she any good at it?”
“Of course, she’s good at it,” Sneak bites, unaware of the hole that he digs me.
“You can’t,” Davis argues, attempting to reason with his brother. “She’s off limits.”
“From what?” I say.
If they’re going to talk about me, in front of me, the least they can do is include me in whatever decision they’re about to make.
“You, my little happenstance,” Pits leers, running a finger under my chin, “are about to make me a lot of money.”
I smile and then spit in his face.