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They take us to an abandoned cement plant on the outskirts of town. It looks to have been out of business for a long time. The marquee on the front of the building says Cunningham Cement, but it’s been partially papered over with a sign that says “Private Property.” All the machinery outside the building is rusted.

It’s a pretty grim location for our abductors to choose. I can’t help but wonder if cement boots are in our future. I glance nervously back at Queenie. When our eyes meet, I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. And that’s this: no one will think of looking for us here.

When they pull us out of the van and force us into the building, the first thing I notice is everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. I sneeze for the first time before we make it ten feet. This is not the kind of place you want to be running around in your panties, a spa robe and flip-flops but here we are.

They take us into the back and it’s clean enough for me to think they’ve been hiding out here for a while. That’s clearly why the brothers couldn’t locate Mr. Silverado. They have cots set up, a card table, a mini fridge and a big pile of snack food. The mini fridge makes me realize the electricity is still working for some inexplicable reason.

Of course, we don’t get a chair or even one of the cots. They shove us down onto the cement floor and cuff us to an old radiator. Queenie immediately leans over, snatches one of the blankets from a cot, folds it in two and puts it down on the floor for us to sit on. There’s just enough left to pull over our legs. For a moment, I think they’re going to take it from us, but then one of the men looks at Queenie and thinks better of it.

Queenie might be a badass, but it’s clear we’re outnumbered. There are five men here; at least three of them have handguns that they either brandished at the spa or keep under their jackets, creating obvious bulges. There are two vehicles here, the van we arrived in and a junky older car that was here when we arrived. I know Mr. Silverado got into an SUV at the spa, so that’s at least six men and three vehicles. I don’t know yet what to do with that information, but my brain is working on it. I pull my robe tighter around my body.

Beside me, Queenie settles into place with her back against the wall and her knees bent. She comments out loud, “Well. This is a depressing location.”

I whisper, “I don’t think they care about our comfort. They look like they’ve been sleeping here themselves.”

“Well, they won’t be getting any sleep as long as I’m here,” she says darkly.

I’m not entirely sure her idea of being a complete pain in the ass is a very smart move. Queenie has been in an environment where no one would dare harm her for so long that she thinks that’s simply how the world works. I know better. These men are criminals. I could easily see one of them losing his cool and striking out in anger. I worry for her. And for myself as well.

I think about that a lot as she gears up to make their lives hell.

“Whoever hired you has you boys living like animals in this filthy place,” she announces in a disgusted tone. “You would think loyal men like yourselves would merit better accommodations.”

When they shoot each other meaningful looks, I suspect Queenie hit a nerve.

Theo, the one she kicked in the balls, speaks up, “Shut the hell up, bitch. You must think we’re stupid enough to fall for your manipulation.”

But of course, Queenie doesn’t shut up. I honestly don’t even think she has it in her. I don’t know a lot about her life, but I’m guessing that being the queen of an MC for so many years means she doesn’t take any shit. “It goes without saying that I think you’re all stupid,” she states blandly. “We already established that on the way to this dystopian hellhole.”

Theo raises his voice. “If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna make you shut up.”

She just shakes her head and keeps right on talking. “I can’t believe you idiots decided to take on the Sons of Rage MC. Of all the clubs to mess with, that isn’t the one a smart man would choose. Do you boys not talk to people?”

Theo doesn’t respond so she keeps on antagonizing him. “My boys are going to hunt every single one of you down,” she states matter-of-factly. “You’re all going to wind up in a shallow grave. And I do mean every damn one of you. No one escapes Sons of Rage justice. It’s fast and brutal.”

She continues talking and eventually, they just try their best to ignore her. I can tell they’re spooked though. At some point, I realize she’s not only trying to intimidate them and keep them off balance, but she’s also making herself the target instead of me. I don’t like that, not at all. I just pull the blanket up around my shoulders to stave off the chill and try to figure out a way out of this mess.

A little after dark, Mr. Silverado walks in with another man. The entire crew straightens up. It’s pretty clear this is the man who hired them. I didn’t have to be half smart to work that out.

The new man is older, maybe in his late fifties, with graying hair. He’s well dressed and moves with confidence.

Mr. Silverado gestures to me. “This is the one you wanted, sir.”

“Well, it took you long enough, Roderick.”

The one I’ve been thinking of as Mr. Silverado stiffens. “That motorcycle club kept her out of the public eye. She was hard to access.”

The old man gazes at us, frowning. “Was it really necessary to chain them to a radiator?”

“Just trying to make sure they don’t wander off, sir,” Roderick says as he walks over and takes off our restraints.

When the older man gestures for us to sit at the card table, I reluctantly sit. Queenie strolls over and looks up at him for a long, hard moment before taking a seat. I’m relieved she didn’t complicate the situation by mouthing off to him. We don’t know how he would react and that makes it a risky move.

He pulls up a folding chair and sits with us. Queenie is blessedly silent and I keep my mouth firmly closed as well. He studies me for a long moment. If looks could kill, I’d be dead. “So, you’re Anthony’s old accountant. The one who testified against him and got him locked up.”

“I’m an accountant, one who used to work for him. I was subpoenaed and required to testify. That’s public knowledge.”

“Half-truths are a form of lying, just like omitting information. You weren’t just subpoenaed, you were an informant for the FBI. You worked with them to bring him down.”