Chapter 1 Warehouse Blood, Bike Heat #2
I slam the cart sideways. Its metal frame crashes into the second man’s knees, tangling him long enough to open a path toward the office.
I don’t make it two steps.
Ronan is suddenly there.
One second he’s near the loading bay.
The next he’s between me and the man lunging for my arm, one hand locked around the attacker’s wrist.
“Don’t,” Ronan says.
The man tries to yank free.
Bad choice.
Ronan twists.
Bone cracks.
The man drops with a strangled scream, his gun clattering across the floor.
Everything breaks open.
Deacon shouts.
Another man reaches inside his jacket.
The one with bleach in his eyes crashes into the shelving, sending a rusted tool case to the floor.
Through the chaos, I hear metal skidding over concrete.
The gun.
It spins, strikes a table leg, and stops three feet from me.
For one insane second, I stare at it.
I’ve never fired a gun.
I hate guns. I hate what they do to bodies, to rooms, to everything that comes afterward.
But I hate the thought of disappearing behind that office door more.
I dive.
My fingers close around cold metal.
The weight shocks me—heavier than expected, ugly in its solidity.
Real in a way movies never get right.
I scramble onto one knee and raise it in both hands exactly like someone who has no idea what she’s doing.
It shakes badly enough that I feel my pulse in the barrel.
Ronan’s head snaps toward me.
Our eyes lock.
Alarm flashes across his face.
Not for himself.
For everyone standing near a panicked woman holding a loaded weapon.
“Finger off the trigger.”
I look down.
My finger is on it.
I jerk it away so quickly the gun nearly slips.
Another impact sounds outside.
They’re almost through.
Heavy boots.
Leather.
Men shouting Eli’s name.
Then Ronan’s.
Not calling for him.
Hunting him.
The loading-bay door shudders. The side entrance groans against its hinges.
Bikers.
Not cops.
Inside, the warehouse turns savage.
Deacon barks orders. The man Ronan dropped clutches his ruined wrist and swears through his teeth. Eli lies in the open body bag between us, dead eyes fixed on the ceiling.
And I’m still on one knee with a gun I barely know how to hold.
Then Ronan moves.
Not away from danger.
Toward it.
He crosses the warehouse faster than a wounded man should. I see the injury now: his black shirt clinging too dark and heavy at his ribs and shoulder, fresh blood slipping from beneath the fabric.
He reaches the side door, catches the inner chain, and yanks it through the track.
The lock slams home.
A body crashes into the other side.
The frame shakes.
“Open the damn door!”
“Ronan!”
The way they shout his name doesn’t sound like rescue.
Ronan braces one hand against the steel for half a second, jaw clenched hard.
Then he turns and takes in the room.
Deacon.
Two armed men still standing.
Eli.
Me.
His gaze settles on the gun in my hands.
“Safety on?”
“I think so.”
His mouth tightens. “That’s not reassuring.”
Humiliation flashes hot through my fear. “You think I usually spend my nights waving firearms around warehouses full of corpses?”
“No.” His eyes lift to mine. “I think if that goes off by accident, we all die faster.”
That should make me furious.
Instead it steadies me.
He bends, scoops up the second fallen gun, and rises with both weapons ready.
I have one shaking grip and a prayer.
He has control.
“If I meant to hurt you,” he says, voice low, “you’d already know.”
That should not calm me.
It does.
Maybe because he’s right.
Maybe because everything else in this room says I’m disposable, and Ronan—bleeding, hunted, furious Ronan—locked himself inside instead of leaving me between Deacon and the men outside.
Deacon backs toward the far wall, palms raised. “Let’s not make this worse.”
Ronan looks at him like he’s deciding where to bury him.
“Worse than standing over Eli while somebody wipes the scene clean?”
My head snaps toward Ronan.
He saw the hidden man too.
Or enough of him.
Deacon’s expression flickers.
Just once.
Outside, another body slams the door. The hinges scream. The chain holds.
For now.
“Who’s out there?” I ask.
No one answers.
Ronan’s gaze returns to me.
Sharper now.
He isn’t measuring whether I’m afraid.
He already knows.
He’s measuring what I noticed.
I’m done being the only person without answers.
“At least one of you should start talking,” I snap. “I was hired for a cleanup, there’s a dead man in a bag, someone was wiping down evidence, and now armed bikers are trying to break through the doors. I’d like some context before I die.”
“Shut her up,” Deacon says.
The man nearest the shelves starts toward me.
I swing the gun in his direction.
Not elegantly.
Not well.
Enough.
He stops.
“Try it.”
My voice shakes only a little.
That earns Ronan’s full attention.
He reaches behind him and throws the heavy bolt on the interior office door.
Metal slams into place.
Another barrier.
Another controlled entrance.
For the first time, I see the room the way he does.
Control the doors.
Limit the angles.
Keep Eli in sight.
Keep me alive.
Witness.
Not suspect.
At least not yet.
“If you’re holding anything back,” Ronan says, “now would be the time to tell me.”
“I’m not.”
“Think harder.”
“I am thinking.”
“No.” His voice drops. “You’re sorting through it. There’s a difference.”
The words hit harder than the gun.
Because he’s right.
I’ve been sorting for survival, not truth.
Another thunderous impact hits the side door. The frame shudders.
Someone outside screams Ronan’s name again.
Inside, one of Deacon’s men adjusts his grip on his weapon.
Ronan hears it.
So do I.
Everything happens at once.
Ronan’s gaze drops.
Not to my face.
Not to the gun.
To my pocket.
My pulse stutters.
Nobody moves.
Then his eyes return to mine, and whatever was hard in his expression turns final.
“Give it to me.”
The words don’t make sense quickly enough. “What?”
“Your phone.”
Ice slides down my spine.
He knows.
Maybe not about the camera card.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
My hand flies to my pocket.
Wrong move.
Ronan’s expression changes.
Not surprise.
Decision.
He comes at me fast.
I jerk backward, clutching the phone through the fabric, but he catches my wrist before I can pull it free.
His grip locks down, hot and brutal, knocking the breath from me.
“Let go—”
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
Something dark and certain flashes in his eyes.
And I realize with sick clarity that I am no longer being questioned.
I’m being disarmed.