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“No,” I agreed. “You did the right thing.”
“Did I?” she asked, fighting back tears. “I’m bringing you to someplace where we’re both going to be harmed on purpose. What kind of friend does that?”
“The kind that protects a child first before herself.”
Hillary shook her head. “Still doesn’t make it right.”
“I don’t think there’s any way to win in this situation,” I answered, fighting against the rising tide of panic in my chest. “How do you know where to go without GPS?”
“I just left. It’s a compound of some kind. Some of the guys are bikers, but not all of them. There’s a scary Russian with them.”
“We stick together, okay? Don’t let them separate us.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. They try to hurt us, and we fight with everything we got.”
“Agreed.” I stuck out my hand, and we looped pinkies briefly. “Pinky swear. I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you too.”
The building was massive and surrounded by motorized gates as we pulled up to the entrance. A buzzing sound followed by the grinding of gears preceded the gate rolling open. We drove inside as it clanged shut behind us.
“I’m terrified,” I admitted, reaching for her hand.
She squeezed back and released my fingers. “Me too. Stay strong.”
Hillary parked and then opened the door as I followed her lead, wondering why there didn’t seem to be many people around. A long row of motorcycles lined the left and right sides of the entrance. There were two black vans with tinted windows and several expensive sports cars.
Two guys in dark suits stood in front of a metal door. They opened it and gestured for us to walk inside.
Curling my hands into fists, I tried to hide the fact that I was trembling. Hillary walked in first, and I followed, entering a facility that closely resembled the interior of the Crossroads. Flatscreen TVs, pool tables, a bar that ran along the back of the bar, but in the center was some kind of stage. Stripper poles were set up, and I saw a group of girls huddled together. One of them was oddly familiar with dark hair and a pretty face I’d seen recently. Was she a model or someone famous?
“Hey,” Hillary whispered, “Isn’t that the girl that’s been on those missing posters all over Tonopah and Vegas? I swear she looks just like her.”
That was it. The reason I recognized the tall, leggy brunette. “Stefanie, I think. She does look like her.”
We weren’t able to say anything else as several important-looking men in expensive suits walked into the room. Several doors obviously led into other areas of the compound. Behind the suits, more men stood off to the side. They were dressed like the bikers in the Royal Bastards MC, but there was an ugly Scorpion on the back of their vests.
“Ah, here. Pretty Americans. You listen to orders,” a Russian announced, stepping forward ahead of the others. “Good.”
Something about his broken English and the way his eyes appraised us like livestock he was ready to purchase sent a chill down my spine.
“You,” he gestured to Hillary. “Join the others.” He ticked his head to the group on the stage.
“What?” she asked, staring at him like he was crazy.
The Russian lifted his hand and slapped her hard across the face. I jumped into action, screaming at him to leave her alone as one of his goons in a suit grabbed me from behind and held tight.
Hillary’s eyes widened, and she lifted her chin in defiance. “Fuck. You.”
The Russian laughed at her audacity and hit the other side of her face as I squirmed, trying to break free.
My friend wiped the blood from her mouth and stood tall, lifting her head high. “Fuck—”
He hit her a third time before she could finish.
Hillary stumbled but caught herself and stood, glaring at him in defiance.
“Join the stage, or I let Jorgi fuck you in every hole.”
