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“Oh, my poor car,” she cried as more shots rang out, pelting the back of the car as the pitted road banged the undercarriage.
“Zoey, ask Jack if he remembers what happened in San Diego,” Billy yelled.
Before she could ask, Jack’s voice came over the phone.
“Tell him I got it,” Jack growled. “You’re almost there, Zoey.”
“We’re almost there . . . Billy!” Turning, she saw his head slump. “Billy!” she screamed. “Oh God. Doogan . . .”
The car was still racing hard and fast as dozens of cycles poured from the trees bordering the road. Zoey ignored the sound of return gunfire and a crash of metal behind them as she fought to control the steering wheel.
Suddenly, a tall lanky body jumped from one of the cycles to the back of the car and lifted Billy, tossing him literally on top of Zoey as the other man slid into the seat and seconds later brought the roadster to a smooth stop.
Peeking over the unconscious Billy’s shoulder, she stared at the biker. Frosty blue eyes filled with joy, he was young, maybe Billy’s age. A do-rag covered his hair; a teardrop was tattooed beneath his left eye.
“Motor still sounds good.” His deep baritone voice was a complete shock. “The body, though.” A crooked grimace pulled at his lips. “Maybe Natches’s boys can fix it.” He grinned. “Come see me if they can’t, we’ll work something out.” A wicked wink and he brought his boot-shod feet up to her seat and launched himself smoothly from the car.
Helping hands pulled Billy from her, rushing him to a van as Doogan strode across the small clearing toward her.
He was in Brom clothes, dammit.
He moved to the car, leaned against the frame of the shattered windshield, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Dawg is probably going to have those pups now,” he stated calmly.
She craned her neck to stare behind her at the men being dragged from the other car and thrown over the shoulders of two of the larger members of Jack Clay’s group and carted off.
Zoey’s teeth clenched. “The world just ain’t right anymore.”
“Hmm.” He nodded. “I guess we better get the blood cleaned off you before Dawg . . .”
Blood?
There was blood?
It was everywhere. So much blood.
Zoey screamed.
The blood was on her hands, on the knife. . . .
Harley.
She couldn’t escape the sight of the scarlet fluid. It soaked his shirt, her hands.
She screamed his name. The knife fell from her hands and there, coating her palms, was the crimson proof of her crime. Or was it?
She stared at her hands, only vaguely aware of Doogan rushing her from the car and into the cool silence of the woods surrounding them. Jack Clay moved ahead of them, his expression hard-core pissed off from what she saw of it. When she saw it.
The images shooting through her head like crazy fireflies were far more terrifying than the nightmare. They flashed between nightmare and memory, strangling her with fear and pain, paranoia and fury.
Tied to the bed, helpless, gagged. The syringe pushing into her arm, the drug the color of sunlight as it was pushed from the plunger into her vein. And once it hit her system, it boiled in her blood, like lava inching through her, ripping through her mind with agony. She tried to scream, but the sound was blocked, smothered by the gag over her mouth. Instinct had her fighting, her fingers curling into claws, fighting to reach the smirking, malicious face of the bastard staring down at her.
She stared into the eyes of the man drugging her. Ice blue, a jagged scar running down his face. She knew him. He’d been there at the party the night she had danced with Doogan. There hadn’t been a scar, but she remembered his face and his eyes, and the malevolence that filled them.
And when his partner stepped to the bed and straddled her, she stared into his green eyes, into a face from the past. He’d smiled. He’d enjoyed her pain, enjoyed making certain it hurt as much as possible.
He wasn’t Johnny Grace, the cousin Natches had been forced to kill sixteen years before. He was Johnny’s clone. Or his son. In his twenties, his gaze malicious, his voice filled with hatred.
Her stomach cramped as the memories poured over her. Pain lanced her head, tearing through her temples with brutal punishment, just as he’d warned her. She couldn’t remember anything but what they told her, she’d been instructed. She would only know what they told her, nothing more. And as the drug began speeding through her system, she hadn’t been able to fight it. She’d tried. She’d fought . . . and then the real pain had begun.
