Page 17 of Vengeance

He held up a finger as though he was trying to listen, but she still heard nothing. "I’m not sure." A twig snapped. Not in front of them, but behind them.

Vengeance shoved her behind one of the bridge supports. "Stay down."

"What is it?" she asked, but he didn't answer.

Instead, he raised his pistol. "Come out,” he shouted. “I know you're there." An older man stepped from the shadows with both hands raised. He wore jeans, a faded leather vest, and no club colors. His hair was gray, and his face was well-weathered.

"I don't want trouble,” the man insisted.

Vengeance didn't lower his weapon. "Then you picked the wrong bridge to be standing on."

The stranger's eyes shifted to Chloe. "I'm looking for the girl."

Every muscle in Vengeance's body went rigid. "You found the wrong one."

The old man smiled. "I don't think so." He slowly reached into his jacket, and Chloe's heart stopped. Vengeance's finger tightened on the trigger, and the stranger pulled out a folded photograph. He held it up, and she noticed that it was a picture of herself, taken less than twenty-four hours ago outside Savage Hell.

"I was paid fifty thousand dollars," the man said calmly. "To report if I ever saw her."

Chloe felt the blood drain from her face. "They're not just hunting me."

The old man nodded once. "No, sweetheart." His eyes met hers with something that looked almost like pity. "They've put a bounty on you." And suddenly, the entire country no longer felt big enough to hide in.

A bounty. The word echoed through Chloe's head until it drowned out everything else. Fifty thousand dollars. Someone had put a price on her life. No, not her life—her capture. There was a difference, and somehow, that made it even worse.

She stared at the old man standing beneath the bridge. He didn't look dangerous. He looked tired. Worn down by life. The kind of man who probably fixed tractors for a living and spent weekends fishing. That was the terrifying part. The Syndicate wasn't using soldiers anymore; they were using ordinary people.

"You took the money?" she asked quietly.

The old man shook his head. "No."

"Why not?" she asked.

His eyes softened. "I buried my granddaughter last year."

Chloe frowned. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She was about your age."

Vengeance hadn't lowered his gun. "Get to the point."

The old man didn't seem offended. "I drove to the meeting." He looked at Chloe. "I even planned on making the call." Her stomach churned. "But then I saw your picture." He unfolded the photograph again. It wasn't just a picture of her. There was a file attached with her name, age, height, the make and model of her Jeep, the community college she had attended, her favorite coffee shop, the nights she worked at Savage Hell, who her parents were, along with her younger brothers and sisters. It was her entire life, reduced to a target profile.

"Oh, my God." She reached for it with trembling fingers.

Vengeance caught her wrist. "Don't."

"I need to see everything,” she insisted.

"No, you don’t,” he said.

"I said?—"

"You don't need those images stuck in your head,” he spat, cutting her argument off. She looked up at him. His eyes never left the old man. "You've seen files like that before." The guy didn't answer because he didn't have to. She already knew the truth—the old man slowly lowered the photo.

"I figured you ought to know what they are doing,” the old guy said.

"So you tracked us down?" Vengeance asked.