Flint (Sons of Rage MC #5)

Chapter 1

Jules

I’m driving with my left hand tonight because I’m craving fast food and my right hand is cramping up due to ten hours of nonstop sketching. My brother would freak out if he could see me. He’d say I’m being wild and reckless. Good thing he’s a million miles away right now in Cedar Falls.

After he left the military, he ended up following his best friend Flint to the small town near Vacaville.

I do miss him. Our mom died when I was twelve and Tommy was eighteen.

He pretty much raised me until he enlisted, which I know must have been a hell of a lot of responsibility for a young man.

I guess because of what we’ve been through, we’re closer than many siblings are—even if we don’t get a chance to see each other in the flesh that often.

I flex my right hand, trying to work out a cramp as I drive.

The Watkins family hired me to do a large two-foot-square charcoal of their great-grandmother sitting in her favorite wicker rocking chair.

The pictures they gave me to work from showed the smiling, age-lined face of a woman with wise eyes that had clearly seen their fair share of hardship.

They want it done in time for her ninetieth birthday party in three days.

I just graduated from art school, and this is my first commission so I want it to be the best it can be.

I’ve been working on this project for the last three weeks.

I’m going to finish it on time or die trying.

The only thing standing between me and a three grand payout is the left eye.

Something doesn’t look quite like the pictures, and I can’t figure out what.

But one more session with my kneaded eraser and a 6B pencil, and I’ll have it.

I prefer working from life, but as this was a surprise for their great-grandmother that wasn’t going to be possible.

I’m on the beltline with nothing but the streetlights and the occasional neon sign to light my way.

I’m close to the hub where all the late-night fast-food places are in my town.

I’m still going back and forth in my mind about the sketch when I slow down.

I loop around the dark part of the beltline that always feels like that long, lonely stretch of highway in scary movies.

I see two taillights in the distance. Someone has pulled over to the shoulder, probably with a flat tire. I slow down and drift over slightly because I don’t want to risk accidentally hitting someone or sideswiping their door if it opens unexpectedly.

I see the car is some kind of dark sedan, but I can’t tell the make. No sooner do I register that than I realize the trunk is open and a man is sitting on the back bumper. He’s breathing hard, like he’s trying to catch his breath.

At first, I think he might be sick or he’s had too much to drink.

But as I get closer, I realize a bunch of things at once.

He’s not alone. There are men in suits standing around.

One of them is waving his hand around, gesturing wildly as he speaks.

Then the other man puts his hand out to steady the guy sitting on the bumper.

I guess they don’t want him to stand up in his condition.

The man looks up, surprised. His face is a mess.

One eye is swollen shut and his lower lip is split, oozing fresh blood.

There’s a huge patch of red spreading out on his shirt from a shoulder wound He’s also filthy, his pants are torn at the knee, and his hair is a mess.

He must have been in an accident, and these men are helping him. Though it’s strange that the car looks to be in one piece with no obvious damage.

Then I realize there’s no other cars in sight, which is strange. Did these men find him on the road?

But when the injured man looks up, I get a shock. I know this man. I’d recognize him anywhere, even beaten with his face swelling up. It’s Mr. Allen, my friend Lauren’s father. He’s a really good guy, and now he’s in trouble.

I’m about to slow down and see if anyone’s called an ambulance when our eyes meet. His hand comes up, reaching out towards my car, fingers spread, palm up, and his eyes wide in fear. That’s when I realize something’s really wrong.

These men aren’t helping Mr. Allen, they’re hurting him.

One of the suited men steps forward with a water bottle and roughly pushes it against Mr. Allen’s chest before shoving him back into the trunk and slamming the lid.

My heart is racing and my hand flies to my mouth, trying to keep from screaming even though there’s no one to hear inside my vehicle with the windows rolled up.

I quickly drive past, and as I head away from the scene, I bring my hand down and fumble for my cell phone.

I’ve got to call the police so they can find Mr. Allen and rescue him.

My hand is shaking as I turn my phone on and realize I only have one weak, blinking bar and a notification that I’ve got less than one percent power.

I still try to call 911, praying the call will go through.

I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm Mr. Allen. He’s one of the nicest people I know. Everyone has good things to say about him. I can’t forget the look on his face. I’ve got to get him help.

I wait for my call to connect, but instead the phone powers down.

Damn it!

While I’m trying to get it to turn on again, I glance in the rearview mirror and see the same car coming up fast. When they settle into place right behind me, all I can think of is steering clear of them.

I full-on panic when they flash their headlights at me.

These men who just beat up Mr. Allen and stuffed him in their trunk want me to pull over.

Why else would they be flashing their lights at me?

There is no way on God’s green earth that I’m pulling over for these assholes. No woman in her right mind would do something like that.

While I’m trying to figure out what to do, the sedan pulls into the left lane and comes up alongside me.

The passenger window is down, and a man is leaning out, one arm bracing against the outside of his door, right below the window.

He shouts at me. My window is up and we’re going so fast that I can’t make out what he’s saying.

I can guess though. His gesture couldn’t be plainer.

He jabs his finger towards the shoulder repeatedly.

His lips are still moving, and his expression is twisted into an angry snarl.

Well screw that. I’m not jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire tonight. My terrified brain scrambles for a way out of this situation. I have to find a way to save myself and Mr. Allen. It only takes me a split second to decide what to do.

I press the gas pedal down again and put on a burst of speed.

The speedometer steadily climbs up to seventy and then eighty, leaving them behind again.

My mistake was underestimating how desperate they were to grab the only eyewitness to shoving a human being into their trunk tonight.

The sedan catches up and then swerves towards me.

I’m terrified when I realize they mean to run me off the road.

Pushing the pedal slowly to the floor, my speedometer climbs towards ninety. If I can just get to the police station, I’ll be safe and I can tell them what happened to Mr. Allen. With luck they can find him before it’s too late.

The assholes chasing me try to run me off the road again, but this time I’m ready for them. When they swing their vehicle into my lane, I brake hard and they shoot past me. I hang a right and head to the police station, leaving them trying to turn around so they can catch up.

I can see the LAPD sign a few blocks away and increase my speed.

Maybe speeding towards a police station isn’t the best thing to do, but I’m sure under the circumstances, they’ll understand.

I tear into the parking lot, my tires screeching against the pavement as I hit the brakes near the front door.

I can see them in my rearview mirror as they slow down and drive past the station. Their brake lights flash a few times before they accelerate and disappear into the distance.

But I’m not taking any chances on them circling back around.

I turn off the car, take the keys and my purse, and make a run for the entrance, pointing the key fob over my shoulder to lock the car.

Pushing through the doors, I fast walk to the reception desk.

My heart is still racing, and I feel a little lightheaded.

There’s a bored looking officer behind the counter, with his chin in one upturned palm. He’s pecking away at a lazy pace on his keyboard with one finger and he doesn’t look up when I approach. I glance at his name tag—it reads Officer Mann.

Clearing my throat finally gets his attention.

“I need to make a report,” I say, my voice shaky.

Pressing both hands flat against the counter to steady myself, I continue, “I just saw a man get beaten and shoved into the trunk of a car on the beltline. They chased me and tried to run me off the road.”

Officer Mann jumps to his feet and reaches for the radio on his shoulder, whispering something I can’t quite make out because of the thick glass between us. He reaches below the counter, and I hear the door leading to the back offices, buzz.

“Come in and have a seat.”

I hurry through the door, hoping that being on the other side will finally make me feel safe.

When I sit down beside his desk, he says, “Take a deep breath, start at the beginning and tell me everything just the way you remember it.”