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Wheeler’s guys started their final sweep before they would close down and leave.
The kid was surrounded pretty quickly by armed men who looked at him like he was the only thing that stood between them and being off-duty.
“Okay, okay. My name is Keagan, I’m seventeen, and I’m sorry for sneaking around and punching that asshole, but he deserved it—just don’t tell the bikers I’m here. I’ll cooperate, I know stuff.” The kid’s hands were shaking behind his back, and he clenched them together. He kept his panic off his face.
“Jesus.” Jackson folded his arms, and something almost protective flashed across his face.
About time.
Saint held the phone up to his ear. The line crackled with static.
Aaron excused himself, and Saint waited to speak until the sound of clinking cutlery and conversation died down.
“Go.”
“We’re okay. Wheeler’s got a kid here claiming to be a biker—he’s not. He’s seventeen. You know anyone that can come get him?” Saint spoke quietly. “He’s a loose end.”
“I can not talk to you about this right now,” Aaron said in a strained whisper. It sounded like he’d moved to the kitchens, wherever he was. “You’ve got about thirty seconds.”
The sounds of shouting and food cooking would cover any external bugs or listeners. Saint stuck with the important details. “The kid’s got a mouth on him that’s going to get him killed, and I don’t think he’s affiliated. Just a kid. You got anyone?”
Aaron spoke after a moment. “Yeah, I’ll text you.” Saint heard him greet someone with forced politeness before the line went dead. He texted a few minutes later, and Saint sent the address through.
Saint nodded to Wheeler. “Your guys can go.”
Wheeler walked with them to the truck where they sorted weapons and gear and debriefed, laughing quietly.
Saint turned his back on them and returned to the kid. “You gonna run if I untie you?”
The kid narrowed his eyes. “Where to? We’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
Saint didn’t respond, and the kid’s shoulders eventually dropped. “No,” he said to the ground.
Saint cut the zip ties and handed the kid a bottle of water that Jackson had left out. They sat beside each other on a wooden pallet, and the kid cleared his mouth and drained the bottle.
The guys packed up and left in twos and threes, driving down the gravel road into the dark.
Saint and the kid sat and listened to the ocean crash in the distance against the cliffs while Wheeler worked on his phone.
Cold had worked its way through Saint’s jeans when they heard a car pull up.
Wheeler moved to stand next to the door, still in his tac gear, and unholstered his weapon. Key watched him but stayed where he was, next to Saint.
The door handle rattled. A blonde woman entered the warehouse. She took in everything in a moment and didn’t react to Wheeler behind the door. Her face fell when she saw the kid sitting next to Saint. “Key. What the hell.”
The kid jerked at his name, and his mouth fell open. “Oh no,” he whispered. He pulled the hoodie farther over his head and ducked his chin.
The kid pretends to be a biker but is afraid of a woman who’s barely five foot six?
She stopped in the middle of the floor. Tattoos touched the base of her throat, and her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. Her hand crept to her lower back, but she froze when she saw Saint watching her. She shifted to keep Wheeler in her periphery, moving slow and careful. Well-trained.
Aaron knew everyone.
“Nia, I’m sorry. And they’re okay, you can put your gun awa—”
“Do not speak.” Nia didn’t look away from Saint, and Key’s mouth closed with a snap.
She wore jeans and a jacket that concealed more than one weapon, if Saint had to guess. Her shoulders squared and her stance widened as she faced him.
