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Waylon pinches the bridge of his nose. “For such a smart guy, you’re really fucking dumb.” He reaches down, yanks me off the floor, and pushes me into a chair. Pulling a gun out of his waistband, he points it directly at my chest. “Are we gonna have any more problems?”
“No,” I grit through my teeth.
Never bring a knife to a gun show. That mantra taunts me, but I remind myself that, in this instance, at least one of my assailants is incapacitated. Waylon secures my hands tightly behind me with zip ties, practically cutting off the circulation, and repeats the process around my ankles.
Jared hobbles over to a small table that’s situated under a window. Scanning the room, I realize we’re in a trailer of some kind, possibly an RV. It’s hard to tell because my brain still isn’t firing on all cylinders. We could be anywhere, and there’s no way anyone will notice I’m missing until I don’t show up for work.
“Fuck!” Jared screams.
I shift my gaze just in time to see Waylon yank my knife out of Jared’s leg. Blood oozes out of the wound. I got him right in the fleshy part of his thigh. There won’t be too much damage, but he’ll definitely be feeling it for a long time.
Too bad I didn’t hit an artery.
“Quit yelling in my goddamn ear,” Waylon sneers. “Take off your belt. I’m gonna have to make a tourniquet.”
Jared unbuckles his belt and removes it. Before he hands it to Waylon, he whips his hand out, and the belt becomes an extension of his arm which he aims directly at me. The leather cuts into my flesh just below my eye.
“Son of a bitch!” I screech.
“Doesn’t feel so good, does it bitch?” Jared cackles like a maniac.
“Great, now her fucking face is bleeding,” Waylon mumbles as he ties the belt above the wound on Jared’s leg.
Blurriness clouds my vision, and it takes a minute for it to register that my eye is swelling shut. Liquid drips down my face, but with my hands secure, I can’t reach up and wipe it away.
Waylon steps over to the sink and turns on the water before stomping over to me with a rag. I jerk my head back, but his hand grips my neck tightly, holding me in place.
“Hold still,” he snaps. “I can’t have Rogue seeing you bleed. It’s bad enough your face is all bruised up.”
“It’s your own damn fault.” I pause. “You and dumbass over there.”
Waylon’s grip tightens around my neck, and I whimper. “You might still get out of this alive if you cooperate. I’d try to be a little nicer to us if I were you.”
“You stole the money,” I accuse.
“Not quite.” He shrugs with a smirk. “I simply provided the opportunity.”
“Why? Stealing from an MC… that’s suicide.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You forgot to factor in one thing.”
“What?”
“You.”
He’s nuts.
“Pinning it on me won’t work. The club knows the truth.”
“They know you didn’t do it, but they don’t know that I had anything to do with it.” His lip curves into a sinister smile as he continues. “You see, the trail leads back to Jared here, but guess what? He doesn’t really exist. Well, he does but only on paper which he’ll make disappear as soon as we get our score.”
“The club will find you,” I fire back.
“No, they won’t. They’ll pay the ransom for you. And when they do, we’ll either let you live to see your grandma and Rogue, or you’ll meet your maker.”
Grandma! He set this whole thing up… Mother fucker! I’ll kill him.
“You called me?”
