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“Now, don’t do anything stupid, Frances,” he snarls into my ear. “Or I’ll tell Frank here to shoot this motherfucker, and trust me, he won’t miss.”
“We got to move, boss,” Frank orders, gesturing to the front door with the gun.
I obey, feeling pitiful. Defenseless.
Terrified.
It’s an overwhelming, helpless dread more powerful than even what I felt at the bridge. A part of me wants to give in now. Let him shoot me. I can’t experience that pain again.
But Daze is the last thing I see before I’m dragged into the hall entirely. It shouldn’t be possible, but concern for him drives out the fear, if only for a second.
I can’t give in now. Not if he’s okay. Not if Hale’s killer is still out there. Not if my father being entwined with Silas more than once isn’t a coincidence.
So, I bite my tongue and try to channel everything Daze taught me that day in the gym.
I fight. No matter how loud I scream, kick, and flail my arms, I don’t get close to breaking free. I just tire myself out, panting with the effort it takes to struggle.
But I don’t feel the fear anymore. Not even as they haul me out of the building and into a dark, enclosed space. Fighting to regain control of my breathing, I strain my eyes to make out anything of use. Any potential exit.
A sudden rush of air has me turning toward it—and I don’t even see the blow coming.
Smack.
A sharp pain shoots through my head, and everything goes black.
TWENTY-ONE
DAZE
My head is poundinglike a motherfucker.Shit.No high leaves a hangover this damn rough. I try to remember…
And she’s the first thing to come to mind.Frey.
Pushing myself up from the floor, I scan the room in search of her as it all comes rushing back.
Silas. That stupid, twisted son of a bitch. He went too far this time. He crossed a line.
And there’s nothing I can fucking do…
They wouldn’t have taken her to the usual compound. No. They’d bring her somewhere more secure. But where?
“Fuck,” I bark, staggering to the living room, searching erratically for my phone.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I nearly tear the whole place apart until I find it buried between the couch cushions. Then, I dial a number from memory, fighting back lingering unease. I can get on a moral high horse later. Desperate times and shit.
Ben can’t get involved, given his proximity to the crew. Neither can Chris. As I go down the list of potential allies, it’s pretty fucking short.
Unless…
I only know of one sick bastard twisted enough to outsmart the Saints. One psychopath capable of going against Silas.
As if drawn to the danger, he answers on the first ring.
“I only gave one man this number. You better be him.” His voice is as unhinged as I remember. Like he’s always on the verge of a murderous tirade.
It’s music to my damn ears.
