Broken - LS Silverii Page 0,11
in Sonoma County, California were dick deep in setting up this deal.
The final text message thread turned her gut.
[last chance motherfucker]
[I got my little boy with me. You wouldn’t dare]
[are you returning our money or not]
[no. fuck off]
Abigail copied and pasted as much of the content as possible and sent an e-mail to herself from Ricky’s account. She erased the sent message, and then tried to delete as many others as possible.
“Where’s the money, you prick?” she blurted aloud.
She searched his system for a bank account or safety deposit box—nothing popped up. Traipsing through his two-bedroom efficiency apartment, she looked in the usual places. Her heart leapt into her throat when she spotted an old stuffed teddy bear tossed into a corner of the spare bedroom. That was it—no furniture, toys, nothing. Ricky’s bedroom didn’t fare much better. Cheap rented-looking furniture pieces, nothing under the beds or in the closets. Her mind caught fire with anger over what he’d done to her son for the sake of money he’d probably already lost.
“Tear the place apart, but find the money.”
Who the fuck was that?
Abigail’s heart stopped for a moment—actually, more than a moment. She peered down the hall and saw a leather cut swing over tattered denims. The bikers. She panicked and padded a small circle in the corner of the guest bedroom. They’d find her no matter where she hid. She willed herself to calm down—Jack still had to be buried.
“Rage, you take apart that computer. The rest of you take a room and go through everything. I mean every fucking scrap of paper.” The voice that shook her wasn’t loud—but it was in command.
She struggled to relax her mind to either consider or create options for survival. No idea what to do but bend down in the closet corner. She heard the mash of heavy footfalls against the cheap industrial carpet just outside the bedroom. Her lungs filled with air to scream as she saw silver-ringed fingers slap the door to shove it open.
“Fuck,” a sinister voice howled. “Someone’s just been in the computer.”
“They gotta be close. Vengeance, take some of the boys around the area. They couldn’t have gotten far,” the commanding voice said.
“Okay, Justice.”
Abigail almost fainted as the person’s hand slid away from the door and disappeared. They’d be back—the window. It always worked in the movies. She masked her movements with the bikers’ tossing and smashing of Geneti’s cheap furniture. The frame slid up, the screen kicked out, but she hesitated at the drop.
“Hey bitch, don’t move,” an angry voice yelled.
Abigail leapt without hesitation or any more thinking. Right now she had to survive for only one reason—to give Jack a proper burial. She busted her ankle, but easily outran the possibility of any one of the bikers chasing her down. Her car was parked away from unit 2021, so they wouldn’t expect a connection.
* * *
Rage rocked the cheap office chair back onto its hind legs. Fingers mashing keys like lightning, he glared deeper into the screen until he appeared consumed by it. Justice and the rest of the Savage Souls searched Geneti’s apartment and the parking lot for something, anything to lead them back to their money but found nothing.
“There’s a lotta shit on his system. Going to take a while to decipher and recover stuff,” Rage, the information technology guru, said.
“Ain’t got time. Shocked the cops ain’t here yet,” Justice said. “Just bag it and lets get out of here before that bitch calls 9-1-1.”
Rage banged away on the keyboard. “One second, I’ve gotta thread on an e-mail just sent from his address to someone. Probably our guest who just escaped. I’m trying to zip up his hard drive and Dropbox it.”
“Fuck. That makes three things we gotta get done—find my money, recover the guns and kill her. I’ll send the others out of the area so we don’t draw any more attention than we already have. Do what you have to on tracking that e-mail. I’ll cover your six.”
Chapter 7
It was time for church. The small town of Mystic reverberated with the rumble of mighty horsepower as brothers of the Savage Souls Outlaw Motorcycle Club arrived for their Wednesday night services at the clubhouse. It was a weekly requirement for the Savage Nation, and the 4553 citizens of Mystic tolerated the drill.
Justice had relocated the club’s headquarter from Chicago to Colorado because he hated city life. Growing up, he and his blood brothers rummaged along the bayous deep in the heart of