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CHAPTER ONE
Astrid
“This is a stupid idea,” I mumble as I contemplate turning around. If it hadn’t taken me so long to find the place, I might have, but stubborn is my middle name, and a bigger part of me wants to see this through. Besides, as much as I like to project an I don’t give a fuck vibe to the world, I’m not sure how many more souls my conscience can carry before I break.
I take the turn I passed three previous times—before I realized I’d been going around in circles—and drive slowly up the unmarked road. When I say road, I mean the dirt path made by all the brave vehicles that have gone before me. I cringe at the pinging sound of gravel and rocks bouncing off my new SUV. I ignore it for now, putting it in the pile of tomorrow’s problems in my brain. A pile that is already overflowing. Instead, I take a deep breath and blow it out.
The road goes on for miles, and I’m starting to think I’ve gone the wrong way yet again when a building finally comes into view. I’m not sure what I was expecting when I set out on this journey, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
A sign greets me as I pass through a wooden archway with APEX carved into the wood.
“Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.”
Now that I know I’m in the right place, a weight lifts from my shoulders. At least until I reach the top of the hill and get a better look at the place.
When I was told about the team of men—or more precisely, ex-soldiers—living out here calling themselves Apex Tactical, I’ll admit I rolled my eyes. I pictured an old ranch or a hunting cabin where a bunch of washed-up old soldiers who couldn’t hack it in the military came to play with their guns. Asking around about them, I found that assumption rather quickly dismissed, but I still couldn’t seem to shake the image I had in my head of the ranch.
Now, I’m more than happy to admit when I’m wrong, and boy, was I wrong. This ranch is not just any ranch. It’s like your friend saying her boyfriend likes to box a little, and then you find out her boyfriend is Mike Tyson.
As I drive toward the parking area, I swear I see a flash of red out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn, I don’t see anything.
I focus back on what looks like the main building and smile. It looks like something out of a movie. I mean, I guess you could call it a ranch if the ranch had been given steroids. For a start, the place is huge. I didn’t do any research on the building itself, and knowing how hard the damn place was to find, I doubt I’d have found anything. What I can see, even from here, is that it’s been restored—keeping a lot of the original features—and painted a warm, earthy red. Two large black doors with smooth steel handles stretch from the bottom of the entry to the top. A sandstone walkway leads up to it from the parking lot. There are various low-maintenance shrubs lining the path, giving it a homey vibe. Floodlights, which aren’t on yet, will probably cast the place in a warm glow once the sun sets.
I pass the large garage to the left of the house and park my car near the front of the building. Turning my engine off, I climb out and stretch, working out the kink in my back from driving for so long. I shut the door, the noise loud in the quiet of the place, and pocket my keys.
Now that I’m here, I feel a wave of unease wash over me. It doesn’t take much for my emotional pendulum to swing from one mood to another. This place is too quiet, and the stillness of it feels unnatural. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, ignoring the feeling between my shoulder blades that tells me I’m being watched, and give myself a pathetic pep talk as I walk toward the front door.
“You’ve got this, Astrid. If they don’t listen, well, that’s on them, not you. All you can do is your best. Hang in there.” I pause when I realize I’m quoting from those stupid kitten posters that are dotted around my therapist’s walls. Well, ex-therapist now, I guess.
Therapy has always been a minefield for me. You go in, and they treat you like you’re crazy, and when they find out you were right all along, they’re the ones who start acting like nut jobs. Now I just go for my own amusement. I play my part pretty well, I think. If the world believes you’re losing your mind, they tend to leave you the hell alone. Given the burden I carry, alone has always suited me just fine.
When I reach the door, I lift my hand to knock, hesitating when I see the doormat that simply reads, Fuck off. Before I can decide if this is a really stupid idea or not, the door swings open, and I find myself staring down the barrel of a gun.
Well, I guess that answers the question about this being a stupid idea. I can’t even find it in me to be scared. I’m just pissed at not listening to my better judgment. I knew this would happen, though I’ll admit I usually open my mouth and speak before someone points a gun at me. I take a deep breath, ready to launch into the awkward explanation of who I am and why I’m here, when I’m grabbed from behind and a sack is pulled over my head.
Any thought of being calm and rational goes out the window at this point.
I swing my elbow back into someone’s gut, pleased with myself when they let out an oof sound. I lift my leg and stomp down on their foot with the heel of my boot. I don’t stop to see if the person in front of me will shoot. I duck and hope that if they do, they’ll take out the asshole behind me. I stumble down the path, reaching up to pull the sack off, but I’m grabbed from behind once more, and this time my arms are pinned to my body, rendering them useless as I thrash in their hold.
“Let me go!” I scream, but they ignore me as they drag me kicking and screaming through the door.
“Shut the hell up,” one of them snarls, which makes me fight harder until I’m dumped in a hard chair and the bag is yanked off.
I move to stand but freeze when I see four large men standing in front of me, two of which I realize are twins. I ignore that fact in favor of concentrating on the other two, the ones who have guns pointed at my head. The two are polar opposites of each other. The one directly in front of me has fair hair that’s long on top and shaved short at the sides. His eyes are soft green with a hint of blue, and they crinkle from the smirk playing at the edge of his full lips. The other has dark hair that’s long enough to skim his jaw. His eyes are a deep midnight blue, and the scowl on his face screams fuck off. And while his arms and neck are covered in ink in shades of black and gray, giving him the ultimate bad-boy look, I don’t see any tattoos on the other guy.
My eyes drift to the twins, who are also dark-haired. Both are taller and broader than the two with the guns. Though they aren’t the ones threatening me, they carry a sense of menace and authority.
“Who the fuck are you?” one of the tall, dark, and deadly twins snaps. I’d answer if I could, but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my heart is beating so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if it jumped out of my chest like a scene from Alien.
When he realizes I’m not going to answer, the long-haired guy who looks like an extra from the show Vikings I like so much walks over to me and presses his gun to my forehead.
“We’ve just decorated, so I really don’t want to splatter your pretty little head all over the walls, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. Did you come here alone?”
I think about lying and saying I came with a bunch of deranged serial killers who are super protective of me, but somehow, I don’t think that would go down well. And I suspect they would know I was lying anyway.
“Yes,” I admit. “I came alone.”
“Search her.” This order comes from the other twin, who, until now, has been quiet. His voice is every bit as cold and hard as his face. The Viking next to me shoves his gun into a holster at his back before he reaches for my arm and yanks me up.
