Page 75 of Spock’s Snare

“Get off me!”

I stomp on his foot and twist, raking my nails across his face. His grip loosens long enough for me to turn. I shove him with both hands, but he catches my wrist before I can escape.

I kick at his knee.

His face contorts with fury.

“You bitch.”

He yanks me toward him. I strike his shoulder, his chest, anywhere I can reach, but he forces his forearm across my throat and drags me backward against his body.

I claw at his arm. My lungs burn as I fight to pull in air.

Black spots crowd the edges of my vision.

His breath brushes my ear.

“You should’ve picked me,” he whispers. “You’re going to be sorry you didn’t.”

I try to scream, but no sound escapes.

The garage tilts. My strength drains away, leaving my arms heavy and useless.

Spock’s face flashes through my mind.

Then everything goes black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: SPOCK

The roar of our bikes tears through the steady clatter of construction equipment as Rush, Dice, and I turn off the highway and roll onto the dirt access road. Dust swirls around us, coating my boots and my jeans as we approach the half-finished strip mall rising from the barren land on the outskirts of Vegas.

A sign attached to the fencing near the entrance reads SIN CITY CONSTRUCTION, Elvis Monroe’s name stamped underneath in smaller letters.

The buildings are little more than concrete-block shells right now. Steel beams stretch across open spaces waiting for roofs. Stacks of lumber, pallets of tile, and bundles of electrical conduit clutter the site. A handful of workers glance our way when we cut our engines, but no one approaches us.

I swing off my bike and remove my helmet. The portable office sits off to the side in what will eventually be the parking lot, a faded metal box propped on worn tires. A dented set of aluminum steps leads to the door. The blinds covering the narrow windows are crooked, but I can see movement inside.

“Someone’s in there,” I say.

Rush studies the site, then turns his attention to the office. “Let Dice do the talking.”

My gaze shifts to him. “Why not me?”

“Because you’re pissed.”

“So?”

“We don’t want him dead, yet.”

Dice chuckles as he removes his gloves. “Don’t worry. You can glower at him. That should loosen his tongue.”

I don’t respond. My anger has been simmering since we learned Blackwood used to work for Monroe. The bastard lied to Chloe about his employment history to get a job with her company. Now he’s tearing apart completed work, trying to make her look incompetent, and threatening her.

If Monroe put him there, I’m going to find out why.

We climb the steps. Dice doesn’t bother knocking. He jerks open the door and walks inside with Rush and me behind him.

The smell hits me first.