Warden's Captive (Highwall Kings MC #1)

1. Mara

Mara

The temperature light turns red halfway up Black Branch Road.

I keep both hands on the wheel. Steam pushes from beneath the hood. The road is wet, narrow, and cut hard against the mountain. There’s no shoulder on my right. Only rock. On my left, the pavement drops into a ditch full of rainwater and dead leaves.

“Not here,” I say.

The car doesn’t care.

The engine loses power twenty yards before a signed pull-off. I ease across the white line before the steering gets heavy, coast onto gravel, and stop close enough to the uphill bank that passing trucks won’t take off my mirror.

Steam thickens. I shut off the engine.

The sudden quiet makes my heartbeat sound too loud.

My duffel sits on the passenger floor. The canvas school tote beside it holds an envelope, two flash drives, and the police packet I found beneath my seat this morning.

The white pills inside still have an evidence label.

I never opened it. I moved it into a plastic food container without touching the seal.

Grant put it there.

My little cabin camera caught his hand coming through the door at 2:13 this morning. His face never entered the frame, but I know his watch, the scar across his thumb, and the gray jacket he wears when he wants people to see the badge clipped to his belt.

The phone he gave me rests in the cupholder. I turned off location access before I left Bellweather. The icon came back twice.

Now the screen says no service.

Rain ticks against the roof. I pull on my coat, shove the phone into the tote, and get out with the evidence pressed against my ribs.

Cold water slips down the back of my neck. I move uphill from the car and stay clear of the hood. Years of walking twenty-three children through fire drills have trained me to find the safe place first and panic second.

Headlights sweep across the wet pavement.

A squat recovery truck comes around the grade. Amber lights flash across the rock wall as the driver slows. HIGHWALL RECOVERY & CUSTOMS runs along the black door in weathered copper letters.

The truck stops behind my car at an angle that blocks the lane. Its lights turn the rain bright.

The man who climbs out is built like the heavy machines parked outside highway garages. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Work boots that land flat on the gravel. His dark hair is clipped close, and his nose has been broken off center.

I want to look at him anyway.

He checks the curve behind us, the ditch, and the steam rolling from my hood. Me last.

Gray eyes move from my wet hair to the tote clutched under my coat. They stop on my face.

“You hurt?”

His voice is low and spare. Not kind. Not unkind either.

“No.”

“Dizzy? Hit your head?”

“I pulled over before it stopped.”

He reaches into the truck bed, takes out two orange cones, and sets them on the road. No wasted movement. When he returns, he pulls on black gloves and walks toward the hood.

“Don’t open it,” he says.

“I wasn’t going to.”

His eyes come back to mine. “Good.”

The single word lands low in my stomach.

I’m stranded with police evidence in my bag and a man hunting me. I shouldn’t notice the recovery driver’s hands or the controlled weight of his body when he crouches beside my front tire.

I notice both.

He shines a light under the car. Green coolant runs across the gravel and thins in the rain.

“Hose let go,” he says. “Engine may be all right if you didn’t keep driving.”

“Can you tow it?”

“Yes.” He stands. “Who knows you’re on this road?”

The question locks every muscle in my back.

“Why?”

“Because that sedan passed me going south eight minutes ago.” He looks beyond me. “Now it’s coming north.”

I hear the engine before I see the car.

Grant’s unmarked gray sedan rounds the curve. He brakes behind the recovery truck, too close to the last cone. My mouth goes dry.

The big man steps between me and the road.

Grant gets out in his gray jacket. Rain beads on his short blond hair. His badge is already in his hand, held high enough for the stranger to see.

“Mara.” Relief softens his face with practiced precision. “There you are.”

I grip my tote harder.

Grant looks at the recovery driver. “Detective Grant Rusk. Bellweather Police. This is a domestic situation.”

“It isn’t,” I say.

Grant keeps speaking as if I made no sound. “She’s been under a lot of strain. She also removed property connected to an active investigation. I’ll take her from here.”

The man in front of me doesn’t shift. The back of his black work jacket carries the white switchback and copper tow hook of the Highwall Kings.

“You arresting her?” he asks.

Grant’s mouth tightens. “I need to speak with her privately.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Grant steps around him and reaches for my arm.

I move back. “No.”

The recovery driver catches Grant’s wrist before his fingers touch me.

No lunge. No raised voice. One gloved hand closes, and Grant stops.

“She said no,” the man says.

Grant stares at the hand around his wrist. “You’re interfering with a police officer.”

“Show me the warrant.”

“This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does now.”

The rain runs off the man’s jaw. His hold doesn’t change, but Grant’s face goes pale around the mouth.

I should be frightened of how little effort it takes.

Instead, I stop planning my route to the ditch.

Grant yanks his arm free when the man allows it. “Mara, get in my car.”

“No.”

“Don’t make this worse.”

That sentence has followed me through locked rooms, school parking lots, and three changes of address.

The recovery driver turns his head enough to see me. “My truck or him.”

It isn’t much of a choice. It’s still the first one anyone has given me since Grant stepped onto the road.

I move.

The truck’s passenger door is unlocked. I climb inside, drag my bags onto the floor, and hit the lock with both hands shaking.

Grant starts toward me.

The driver blocks him again. They speak too low for me to hear. Grant points at the truck, then at his badge. The other man looks at both and shows no interest.

He photographs my car and the coolant beneath it before lowering the rollback bed. Grant stands in the rain and watches him load it.

When the driver finally climbs behind the wheel, the cab tightens around his size. He removes his gloves one finger at a time and sets them on the dash.

His knuckles are scarred.

“Seat belt,” he says.

I fasten it. “What’s your name?”

“Warden.”

The road name fits too well.

He pulls away. Grant remains in the mirror, rain running down his face, his stare fixed on me through the rear glass.

“Where are you taking me?”

Warden checks the mirror, then the road ahead.

“Somewhere he can’t put his hands on you.”

He hasn’t asked where I want to go.

I should demand that he stop.

Instead, I watch his bare hand settle around the wheel and let him drive me deeper into the mountain.