Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
He steps around to the front again, flicks a bit of ash onto the floor, and leans in, exhaling smoke directly into my face. My eyes water, but I glare flat and empty at him. “Gage will come, even if you think he won’t. Your biker boyfriend,” he grins as he says it, “will come running, too. I made damn sure of that. Left a trail even the dumbest of them could follow.”
I don’t waver, even though inside, I am terrified of what he is going to say next.
“When they get here, I’ll have every single one in the same place. I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make it a show, make an example. The kind of message nobody forgets.” He grins at something only he can see, lets the silence dangle. “Then, while they’re fighting amongst themselves, over you, I am going to fucking blow the lot of them. An explosive that will send their heads flying. All the cops will see is a club war that ended in disaster. I walk free.”
A cold prickle rides down my spine. He isn’t bullshitting.
This is bad.
So fucking bad.
He flicks his cigarette into the corner, then squats down, face a half inch from mine. I smell nicotine and aftershave. “All you gotta do,” he says, “is sit pretty and wait.”
“They’re smarter than you think,” I hiss. “They won’t fall for your pathetic plan.”
He stands, laughs, and this time the sound is real—rich and poisonous. “Tough act,” he says to the wiry man, who grins. “No wonder the clubs are obsessed.”
He heads for the door, and the wiry guy follows, not another word is spoken. He has said all he needs to say. I think about the plan. He’s left a trail. He wants them to come, and they will. Every single one of them, and likely, other chapters. So many bodies, all walking straight into the kill box. I feel the fear, raw and physical in my stomach, but I shove it down.
I need to think.
I can’t let this happen.
If I could get free, even for a second, maybe I could flip the script. Warn them, at least. But the knots are cruel, the chair solid. The room is completely empty. There is nothing. Nothing for me to use for escape. I scoot the chair an inch, two, then give up as my arms start to tingle numb again.
Think, Sable.
It doesn’t matter how much I wrack my brain, I can’t think of a way to get out of here. These men are smart, they would have thought every possible scenario through. They’re not going to fall for the old sickness, or fainting trick. They’re not going to leave weapons that I can cut myself loose with.
My stomach drops.
I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this alive.
Worse, I don’t know how I’m going to save the club.
Both of them, for that matter.
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake to a clatter in the hall. My neck is cramped, my hands swollen, and my back is soaked in cold sweat. I must have eventually passed out last night. My mouth is dry and my throat burns. I flex my fingers, wincing, and force myself to take account: still tied, still hopeless, but still alive.
The door bangs open and a young man walks in. He isn’t much older than me, maybe twenty-five or six, but he already has the face of someone who’s had it punched one too many times. Acne scars on his cheeks, hair buzzed too close to the scalp, shirt stained with something brown. His eyes flick over me, and he shows nothing.
Not a single thing.
“Get up,” he grunts, voice hoarse like sandpaper. Then with a single motion, he cuts my ankles free before hauling me to my feet. My legs wobble, my entire body tingling as the blood rushes back in. I sway, my feet feeling like they are the size of balloons.
He pulls me, but I tumble to the ground, my body not ready to work.
With a curse, he hauls me up again.
He’s not experienced. I can see it in the way his hands tremble, the way he keeps inching away from me, like I might bite. I want to bite. I want to rip a chunk out of his arm and spit it in his face. Instead, I force myself to stay on my feet and shuffle after him. The rope at my wrists is too tight, but I twist them, feeling out for the spots where the knot gives a little.
We move out of the room and down a hallway that smells like gasoline and mildew. The man walks slow, anxious, eyes darting at every shadow. At the end of the hallway, a gust of cool wind hits me full in the face. We step outside, but it isn’t completely, instead we are in a large, open barn.