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“Yeah,” growls Eagle-eye. “Exactly.”
Faith has frozen completely. I can’t see her since the camera’s pointed at the box, but I can hear her breathing and it sounds fucking terrified. The video cuts off suddenly, without any of the usual like and follow crap.
“She posted that shit to the internet?” Blade’s voice is deathly calm, but it carries an edge of threat. “I know she and your ex got out, but—”
“Enough.” Eagle-eye wipes a weathered hand over his face, drawing it down through his beard. “She was doing this live. You saw her fucking reaction. The damage was done before she knew.”
Eagle-eye shuts his phone off. “I need you fuckers to get your hands on that videotape and not ask questions. You ride tonight, and you don’t fucking stop until you’re there. As long as she’s got that tape, she’s in danger. Get it and bring it back to me so I can make sure it’s the right one before I shred the fucking thing.”
“What’s on it?” Ripper asks.
“None of your fucking business,” growls Eagle-eye. Jupiter, sensitive to the mood, rests his head on Eagle-eye’s lap and Prez gives the boxer a distracted scratch behind the ears.
“Hey, no problem.” Ripper backs up, hands up. “Just asking. We’ll get it for you. What do you want us to tell Faith?”
“Nothing. It’s better if she doesn’t see you at all. Just get in, get the tape and fuck off, got it? She’s got her own life, and doesn’t need me fucking around in it.”
“Clear. Strike Team Motherfucking Alpha is on it.” I flash a grin to reassure him, though I can’t help but hope maybe we’ll get the chance to see his pretty daughter in person anyway. I nod for the guys to follow me. “Be back before you fucking know it.”
Barely fifteen minutes later, we’re on our rides and pulling out of the clubhouse gates. The sun’s high, the summer’s warm, and the highway beckons. We’ve got a long fucking ride ahead of us.
2
FAITH
When I goto put the key in the lock, I end up pushing the front door open instead. What the heck? I know I locked it. I never forget. I triple check every time, so no way I forgot.
Which means someone else has unlocked the door.
A chill crawls down my spine on frozen, spindly legs like an icy spider. When I was fourteen and convinced Mom I was done with therapy, I swore to myself I’d never be afraid again, but I was such a liar. Even this many years later, the panic still hits out of the blue sometimes, but at least this time I’m prepared. I adjust my glasses, then nudge the front door open quietly.
Books & Crannies isn’t just my store, it’s my home. I run my business out of the first floor, and my apartment is on the second. Usually I love the maze-like quality of the shop with lots of sitting areas tucked away and shelves packed full of books, but right now I wish it was clear and open so I could see the whole place. I have to tiptoe through practically the whole shop to get to the back.
Using the counter by the door for cover, I crouch down to type in the code on my gun safe under the register. My fingers tremble so hard it’s difficult to hit the little buttons. This gun is the only one I own, but every room has something in it. Like the fireplace poker near my little wood burning stove, or the baseball bat under my side of the bed.
It makes me angry that I even think about stuff like that. I’ve never liked weapons, and I know all the statistics about gun violence, but this isn’t a perfect world, and if there’s one thing my father taught me, it was how to shoot straight. Even though I’ve never fired at anything but tin cans and paper targets, I’m thankful. The pistol feels both heavy and comforting in my hands.
I slip through the first floor like the main character in a spy movie. Or maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. I don’t know, but I go as quietly as I can. My own shallow breathing is the only thing I hear. Maybe I really did forget to lock the door? Or whoever it was is gone.
There’s a thump upstairs, and the sound of muffled voices. Shit.
Normally, there’s a sign that reads “PRIVATE” hanging on a chain strung across the stairs, but it’s been unhooked. Someone’s up there.
They’rein my home.
The humid, summer weather isn’t enough for me to be sweating this hard, and my heart’s beating like it’s trying to break its way out and run away.
I won’t be afraid.I won’t be afraid.I chant in my head, trying to convince myself that it’s not a lie, then I take the first quiet step on the stairs.
Nicky would tell me to call the cops, but that’s another lesson I learned young. Maybe in some places it’s different, but around here they’d take one look at my family and write us off as biker trash. This ismyhome,myspace. And it’s been invaded. I’ll never let anyone take my agency away from me, ever again. I might have to lock myself in the closet and cry later, but I’m not going to back down now.
I climb the stairs like a ghost, knowing exactly which steps creak and which don’t. A ghost with a gun in both hands and my jaw set in determination.
Another thump, and someone curses. There’re at least two guys, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
I should run. I want to run. But I want them out of my house even more. White-knuckling the pistol hilt, I take the last few steps up to the inside front door. Nudging it with my foot, I ease it open, leading the way with the gun barrel.
No one’s in the little hall, or the living room past it. Nothing seems out of order, other than the voices coming from the bedroom—my bedroom.If there’s anywhere that’s my innermost shelter against the big world, it’s the bedroom, and whoever these bastards are, they’ve invaded it.
