Page 28 of My Wild Biker

Except Chuck told me to be careful. Told me Marrow might know about me. Told me to keep my phone on and not open the door for anyone.

I'm not being paranoid. I'm listening to someone who's been doing this for twenty-five years and knows what real danger looks like.

I text him: Back at rental. Doors locked. I'm okay.

Three dots appear immediately, then: Good. Stay there. I'll call when I know something.

I set my phone on the kitchen counter and try to figure out what to do with myself. My suitcases are mostly packed for tomorrow. My laptop has work I could do. I could read, watch something, take a shower.

Instead I sit on the couch and stare at my phone and think about how Chuck looked when he was getting dressed. The controlled urgency. The way his jaw was set. The kiss before he left that felt like goodbye even though he said he'd call.

Around nine-forty-five I force myself up and make tea I don't want. Chamomile that tastes like grass but the mug gives my hands something to do. I lean against the kitchen counter and watch the front door like it might do something.

My phone stays silent.

Outside a motorcycle passes on the street. The engine sound is loud and then fades and my heart is racing for thirty seconds after. Not Chuck's bike. Wrong sound. But now I'm listening for motorcycles and every car that passes makes me tense.

At ten I'm still standing in the kitchen with lukewarm tea when I hear motorcycles again.

More than one this time. The sound gets louder instead of fading. Coming closer. Slowing down.

My stomach drops.

I set the mug down and move to the front window, staying back from the glass. Peer out through the blinds.

Two motorcycles pull into my driveway. Two men in leather cuts climb off. Even in the porch light I can see the patches aren't Vigil.

My phone is still on the kitchen counter.

The men walk up to my front door and one of them pounds on it. Three heavy hits that make the whole frame shake.

"Isla!" The voice is muffled through the door but clear enough. "We know you're in there. Come out and talk for a minute."

I don't move. Don't breathe. Stay frozen by the window.

More pounding. "Don't make this difficult. We just want to talk. Crane sent us with a message for Chuck. You can deliver it."

Everything in me is screaming to run. Back door, get out, get to a neighbor, call 911, anything but stay here. But my phone is fifteen feet away on the kitchen counter and the back door is past the front door and I don't know if I can get to either without being seen through the windows.

"Last chance," the voice says. "Either you open this door or we open it for you."

I hear the sound of a boot connecting with the door. Once. Twice. On the third kick something cracks and the door slams open, deadbolt torn through cheap wood.

Two men step into my rental and I'm still frozen by the window.

One stays near the door blocking any exit. Tall, maybe six feet, muscled, older than the kid from last night, with a scar running down his jaw. The other walks into the living room looking around like he's assessing the space. Shorter, stockier, maybe late twenties.

His eyes find me by the window.

"There you are." He smiles and it's not friendly. "You're Isla, right? The one Chuck's been spending time with?"

My voice won't work. I press back against the wall.

"Crane wants Chuck to know something." He takes a step closer. "Wants him to understand that being with someone makes you vulnerable. Makes them vulnerable. See, Chuck's been causing problems for us. His intelligence network, his contacts, all that tracking he does. Gets in our way. So Crane figured we'd send a message Chuck can't ignore."

The man by the door hasn't moved. Just stands there watching with dead eyes.

The shorter one takes another step toward me and I'm running out of room to back up.