ways down from the place, there’s a sign that reads, Opening Soon—Under New Management.
We pass by the front of the café. There’s a banner above the door that says the same thing as the sign. I don’t see any lights on inside.
Then, as we pass the far side of the building, I catch sight of a glint of black metal siding.
The back end of the van peeks out from behind the building. The beast inside me sits up, alert.
Rat holds up his phone, showing me the screen. A small red dot blinks. He points to the café, inclining his head.
Emma’s signal, and it’s coming from inside.
The beast pants. Gratitude for Rat swells in my chest. Thank fuck for eggheads. I’ll have to buy him the next Avenger’s game.
Not wanting to alert Emma and her driver to our presence, I signal to the other two to keep heading west. The guy’s probably just an average Joe who has no idea how to handle three armed bikers, but in these parts, you never know, and I don’t want to give my Wildcat the chance to run again.
A few minutes west of the restaurant, we park the bikes behind some rocks and start back on foot. At the café, there’s a fence that runs along the west side and to the back, meant to keep out predators. We hop the fence, and I drop down low at the side of the place. Rat and Striker follow.
No one’s outside, but I draw my gun, cock it, cup it between my hands pointed down, and signal the other two to stay at my back, just in case.
Around the back we creep. Paint cans and plywood are stacked near the back wall, and a part of the wall is painted white, the rest of it a faded, chipped brown.
Maybe the driver is one of the new owners and he was headed here to work on the place. If that’s the case, there might be more people in there, or more coming later. I flash Striker and Rat a look, a warning to be careful, and they nod.
The back door is open, revealing a rickety old screen door that’s closed. A faint, sallow light gleams from inside a back room. I don’t hear anything from where we are.
Using the van for cover, we inch our way over and crouch behind it until we see that the coast is clear. Striker looks through the side windows and signals that no one’s inside the vehicle. Then, crouched low, we make our way to the back door of the cafe, taking up position beside it, out of sight of anyone inside the building.
I wave at the other two to stay back behind me and listen for voices inside.
“…must have been doing this a long time.” Emma’s voice drifts out. “I can’t believe you managed to get us away from that place without anyone seeing.”
The respect, the near awe in her voice is unmistakable. The sound of it makes my teeth grind.
If there’s a reply from the guy with her, I don’t hear it.
“I’ve been trying to get away from those filthy Outlaws for weeks,” she adds.
“What the fuck?” Striker hisses.
“Wow,” Rat mouths when I glance at them.
Her words cut across my heart, sharp as a blade. She sounds thrilled. Loathing for my club, for the only real family I have ever known—sheer loathing for me—drips from her voice.
The beast inside me roars in rage. She won’t be singing such a happy tune when I get through with her.
4
The Man With the Cobra Tattoo
We drive for what feels like forever before the van finally jerks to a stop.
Eventually, the van had stopped turning or bumping so much as the road smoothed out. The motion of the vehicle and the warmth of the back compartment had begun to make me drowsy. My head had lolled forward, but when the van halts, my head snaps up. The front door of the van opens, then thuds shut. All fatigue vanishes on a rush of adrenaline.
Footsteps crunch beside the van, sounding like they’re moving away. I hear the thud of a door opening, then a squeak of what sounds like a screen door. Footsteps, crunching alongside the van again, moving toward the back of the vehicle. My muscles tense, my breathing quickening, huffing through the rag that’s still in my mouth and filling my ears.
The vehicle’s back doors swing open.
“Up and at ‘em,” my kidnapper says in a falsely cheery tone. He’s wearing the same