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My suspicions about Anthony start to take root. I always do my homework before a job. I know who this house belongs to, so I know, without having to peek out a window, that it’s Blackbeard bikers in the driveway.
It’s not the first time I’ve tangled with bikers, but I’ve approached with caution after a run-in with a one-percenter club in Montreal. It was a misunderstanding, but their president didn’t see it that way. I got off with a warning to leave Canada and never come back. I’m surprisingly compliant when there’s a gun to my head.
After I explained to Anthony why I was reluctant to rob a bike gang, he assured me that the Blackbeards rarely used the house, convinced me that his information was solid. Yet here they are, three men by my ears, unless they’re riding double. And they’re dropping by after midnight. For what? Sure, bikers keep odd hours, but this house has an air of desertion. It hasn’t been occupied for a long time.
Maybe it’s a coincidence? Me, robbing their house at the same time three goons drop by for tea. Problem is I don’t believe in coincidences. Not really. Not this kind. I’m almost certain I’ve been set up by my cousin-in-crime. The only thing I don’t know is why.
I decide Anthony’s betrayal is something to contemplate later as there are far more pressing matters to attend. At least three Blackbeard bikers are about to enter the house and I’m defenceless. Heading upstairs would only trap me and strolling out the front door doesn’t seem like a feasible option for escape. Neither does the back door as I hear the rattle of a key from that direction. The window I came through won’t work unless I can find a ladder in 10 seconds. Unlike the exterior wall, which is covered in rough stucco, the interior is too smooth for me sprint my way up.
Besides, who knows if one of the men isn’t lingering under it waiting to break my fall.
I curl up behind an armchair as I hear the creak of the front door. Even before light floods the house, I know my hiding spot is not going to save me. This night is about to get longer.
One of the guys, short and husky in that steroid kind of way, saunters into the room, his eyes searching. Any doubts I had about Anthony setting me up are gone. They know I’m here. They know I’m trapped. The next time I see Anthony, I’m going to wring his neck.
The guy with the muscles walks to the centre of the living room, his head swivelling from right to left, stopping dead when he spies me. His lip curls as he starts to say something, but before he can utter a word, he drops like a rock, his body hitting the floor, his head bouncing off the hardwood.
Behind him is a man dressed in black. Not a catsuit like mine. Jeans, black biker boots, balaclava. Also, he’s holding a gun, which I am not. He locks eyes with me and puts a finger to his lips, a warning to keep my mouth shut. That’s not a hardship. I know how to be silent and motionless. It’s why I’m still alive.
The guy with the gun is tall and lean, graceful as he steals towards the arch of the living room, just beyond my sight. A few seconds later, I hear a grunt and then a thud. Blackbeard number two is down, and I let out a premature breath of relief. One left to go.
I’m not afraid. I do get scared at times because fear is a natural response, but long ago, I realized that it’s irrelevant to the outcome. Therefore, it serves no purpose. Thus, my heart rate is steady, my breathing normal as I stand to run out the back door.
I’m partway across the living room, when the third guy materializes in front of me, pointing a gun. We stare at each other for a long couple of seconds before he breaks the contact. He looks over my shoulder, then crumples. The noise from the gun behind me isn’t explosive, just a loud pop, the sound a silencer would make.
I stare at the dead biker as a bloody hole blooms in the centre of his forehead, then slowly turn toward my unknown saviour… or future murderer. He’s pointing the gun towards me.
This is where it all stops, I think. In Reno, in a house I shouldn’t be in, shot by a man I don’t know. It’s ironic. I’ve come full circle. I’m back where I started. Where I almost died, and now, where I’ll take my last breath.
I tear up because every action in my life has brought me here to my death. I think of Sean, my son, and Autumn, my sister. My best friend, Rinna, who saved my life and has kept my family safe. They’ll all grieve for me. Then of cousin Anthony, who betrayed me, the smug smile on his face that I’ll never get the chance to wipe off.
I wait for the guy to pull the trigger. If he’s expecting me to beg, he’ll be disappointed. Begging rarely influences the result, especially when it comes to violence.
Instead of the bullet I’ve braced myself for, he walks up to me, presses the gun into my ribs, then rips off my balaclava. “You’ve really fucked up my night,” he says in a dead voice that slides through my veins like ice water. His intense blue eyes stare into mine, cold and unforgiving. I realize I was wrong about my ability to suppress fear.
I swallow, then clear my throat. “Sorry about that.”
His lips tip up, but he’s not amused. His gaze doesn’t waver from mine as he reaches out and takes a lock of my hair, pulls it towards him and inhales.
Everything inside me freezes as demons try to claw their way out from the box that I’ve locked down tight. If they escape, they’ll destroy my soul and I’ll lose the woman I’ve so carefully constructed.
“Don’t,” I demand as I knock his hand away.
He doesn’t react as he hands me the balaclava. “Put it back on.”
It’s a life vest for me, the safety of darkness, and I cover my head, feeling secure inside it. Stupidly.
Then he does something that outrages me. He fucking turns his back on me as if I have no power to hurt him. I hold my breath as he walks across the room and yanks a cord attached to a floor lamp out of its socket.
I tense, getting ready to run.
“Don’t.” His back is still turned, but the warning in his voice promises death.
I freeze as he snaps the cord from the lamp, then returns to me. “Turn around.”
I blow out a breath as I think about what to do. I’m fully aware my fight or flight response is one bad idea away from defending myself.
I’ve hesitated too long as he lightly grips my shoulder and turns me so I’m facing away. He wraps the cord around my wrists and then yanks me backwards into his hard chest. “We’re going outside.” His words slide over me like melting ice. “You’re going to walk in front of me without speaking, without struggling or trying to run away.”
