Chapter 28
The explosion shakes the entire house.
The backyard lights up, glowing amber. The distraction I was promised.
I go still, watching, waiting, lying prone in the tall grass lining the gravel driveway, eyes trained on the front door.
Shouts erupt from inside. A distant door slams. More shouting.
I keep focus. From here, I can see my bike lying on its side to the right of the house. Perfect. It’s how I’ll get us out of here.
Another explosion.
The shouts get louder. Shadows dance across the ground.
Time to do this.
I jump to my feet, sprint across the driveway, and hurtle up the sinking porch stairs. Ignoring the old wood groaning under my weight, I raise my gun and slowly push open the door.
The house is a mess. Graffiti marks most of the interior walls, the floors littered with bottles and cans, food wrappers, blankets, and pillows. Teenagers like to come here to fuck around. I’ve cleared the place half a dozen times this summer alone. Now it’s attracted a new kind of trouble.
With my hands steady on the grip of my gun, finger on the trigger, I take the house room by room. Clearing the front before creeping towards the lit-up kitchen in the back. Outside the window, the leather-clad men scramble around, dousing the fire burning in the backyard.
I grin. Holy shit. Preacher lit their fucking bikes on fire. And maybe a gas can or two, given the height of the flames.
The door leading from outside into the kitchen bangs open and two men hurry in.
Cloaked in shadow, I freeze, barrel aimed ahead.
“Gotta be those fuckin’ Sinners.” One of the men grabs a shotgun off the table and cocks it.
“How the fuck did they know?” the other asks. “We were quiet comin’ in. They must’ve had a scout watching the town lines.”
“Fan out and find them. I want them dead. And remember. You come across Donovan, you keep him alive. Otherwise no one gets paid.”
They disappear again, and when the house is silent, I creep around the corner and do a quick scan of the kitchen. It’s more mess. Cards and poker chips spread out on the table in the centre of the room, half-empty liquor bottles, a still-lit cigarette sitting idle in an ashtray. No sign of Grace.
I’m inching towards the door that leads to a very mouldy, slightly flooded basement, when the ceiling above me creaks. Freezing, I tip my head back and strain to listen. Another creak. Muffled voices. Then a scream.
My stomach lurches.
Grace.
Keeping my steps light, I move swiftly back down the hallway towards the front door and then up the stairs, gun raised.
My heart ratchets up a few notches as I approach the only closed door on the second floor.
Light glows from beneath it. Flickering like candlelight.
Or maybe it’s the fire below licking its way up the walls of the house.
I press my ear to the wood, listening. It’s quiet in here, but a shout rings out in the yard. Then a gunshot.
Shit.
Time to fucking go.
I take a step back, raise my foot, and then boot fuck the door.
It flies open, and I point my weapon towards the back of the room.
As I enter, I come face to face with the barrel of a gun.
I lunge to my left half a second before a shot pops off.
Hot molten fire slices across my cheek as I hit the ground. I twist. I aim. And then I shoot.
A body drops.
I swing around, gun raised, searching for another threat, but all I find is a pair of terrified dark eyes and a pretty face.
“Linc,” Grace sobs.
Her lip is bloody, cheeks streaked with tears, legs scratched up. Like she was fucking dragged up here. She’s sitting on a filthy mattress, chained—fucking chained —to a cast-iron radiator.
Her focus snaps behind me and her eyes widen. “Watch out!”
I whirl around but get knocked off my feet.
A large, meaty body makes contact with my middle and slams me hard against the wall, breaking the plaster and relieving me of my gun.
Air whooshes from my lungs as he lands a punch to my gut, and then another.
An assault on all my soft spots. I double over, coughing as a well-aimed jab thrusts up against my diaphragm, and then another hard against my ribs.
“Get off him!” Grace yells, flailing her feet at my attacker from her spot on the mattress.
I jerk my knee up, landing a hit to his groin, but before I can do any more damage, I’m twisted and thrown forward.
Then he’s coming at me again. This time when he lunges, I get my hands around his head and crank his neck to the side, effectively fending off his attempted takedown.
He shakes me off and swings at me, I dodge him and then lay out my own barrage of punches.
When he throws me back, his face is bloody, chest heaving.
He spits blood on the floor, then grins and pulls out a blade. “The boyfriend, I take it.”
“That’s right.” I match his smile as warm liquid oozes down my face. Probably from the bullet that grazed me. I glance over at Grace. “Did he hurt you?”
With a thick swallow, she nods. And I see fucking red.
He launches himself at me, slashing his knife.
I spring back so the blade only catches my shirt.
Then I strike. A hook to the temple once, twice, and then a palm to his nose.
There’s a sickening crunch, and more blood floods down his face.
He stumbles back, but I keep coming, anger burning, fueling me as I pummel him with an onslaught of punches.
Another hit to the face, and then another.
I grab his hand, the one still gripping his knife, and twist. Then I jerk the blade up and into his stomach.
The fingers gripping my collar loosen. His eyes round as I walk him back until he hits the wall, slide the knife out, and then stab into him again, and then again.
I keep stabbing; I can’t stop. The pent-up aggression takes over.
The anger and fear that swamped me the moment I heard her on the phone.
He chokes, his throat gurgling, lips stained red, body slumping.
But I keep going until I’m covered in his blood and he’s deadweight.
Deep. Fucking. Breaths.
Closing my eyes, I let the body drop to the floor. I stretch my neck left, then right, forcing the tension to drain from my body. It’s only when I’m calm that I turn.
With another big breath, I shuffle for the bed.
I drop my knees to the mattress and pull her into my arms. My hands tremble as I take her face into my hands, assessing the damage.
Split lip, bruises forming on her cheeks.
Black eye, maybe. A cut on her forehead.
I kiss her. Gently. Tasting blood on her lips as she shudders and sobs.
She pulls back, tears flooding her eyes. “You came for me.”
“I’ll always come for you, Gracie. Where are the keys? We’re not out of trouble yet.”
Grace jerks her head at one of the bodies on the ground. “Front pocket.”
The moment I get her unchained, she pulls me into another embrace.
I let it go too long. Let myself simmer in this rather than the rage that’s been storming inside me for the last half-hour.
Breathe her in. Settle into the crook of her neck.
Feel her skin. God, we need to fucking go.
Get to safety. But this feels too damn good.
For a long minute, I thought I might have been too late.
That she was already dead. Or that they’d already gotten too much time with her.
That maybe they did more than slap her around.
I can’t think of it. Not right now. Because if she so much as alludes to it, I won’t leave until every single one of them is dead.
And I’m not sure I have enough bullets to come out of that alive.
I break away, hold her at arm’s length, and do a final check of her injuries. Then I pull her to standing.
Voices sound from downstairs. “No sign of them! Check on the girl.”
Shit. I pick up my gun, give her the second from the holster at my ankle, and then lead her from the room.
We silently pad down the short hallway and into one of the bedrooms overlooking the front yard.
I yank a rotten board from the window, test the sturdiness of the roof, and then step out.
Once I’ve found solid footing, I turn and help Grace out behind me.
It’s a good ten-foot drop to the ground, but I manage to hang from the roof and then drop to the overgrown grass easily.
“Careful,” I tell her as she twists around and lowers herself.
I catch her when she drops, then pull the spare keys for my bike from my pocket and rush over to my machine.
“Get on.”
She mounts quickly, wrapping her arms around my middle, her hands trembling.
The front door blasts open just as I crank the engine and peel out.
A shot echoes in the night, and Grace’s body tenses against mine as I maneuver the uneven driveway.
Another shot, but then I’m on the road, gunning it down the straight stretch.
Picking up speed, my focus on Grace. On her body pressed tight to mine.
I squeeze her fingers, and she squeezes back.
Cool rain splatters against my face, a sprinkle that quickly turns into a full-on downpour.
The dark pavement turns slick, the water soaks through my clothes, seeping into my skin.
I don’t slow. I can’t. I check my mirrors again and again.
Waiting for them to follow. Searching for signs of a bike.
That single headlight following me. Nothing comes, but my heart doesn’t calm, even when I’m rolling up to my driveway.
I kill the engine as I reach the small laneway between my house and garage, and we dismount my machine. Grace is quiet, sombre.
“How did they hurt you? Did they—” I take a breath, unsure of how to comfort her.
She folds her arms around her body. “No. They didn’t do that.”
Thank fuck. Heart hammering, I bridge the gap between us and tug her into my chest, angling up her chin, feathering my fingers over her bruised face. I’m gonna fucking kill them all. Every last one of them.