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She still hadn’t told Chris about the phone. On the one hand, it felt so much like actual lying that it made her feel awful about keeping it from him. On the other hand, she was determined to keep him separated from that other life, where a looming threat would probably never really ever go away. She’d be damned if she’d lose Chris the same way she’d lost Jake.
She switched the phone on. It beeped immediately, indicating a text message.
Call me immediately. 9-1-1.
The message was 5 days ago.
Shit. Hayley’s fingers fumbled over the keys as she tried, failed, and redialed her parent’s number. She should have checked more often. Her mother finally answered on the third ring.
“Oh, God,” said the older woman. “Oh, thank God. Sarah, honey. It’s your father. It’s not good.”
Hayley Crystal Turner Sarah Marie Davis took no longer than three seconds to snatch her black duffel bag off the closet floor.
Chapter 31
As Hayley sat down on the bus, an impossibly loud rumbling started down the street. As if it already wasn’t loud enough to wake the dead, the noise as it approached grew nearly deafening. She craned her neck to look out the window and saw dozens of motorcycles coming down the street, taking up both lanes. She looked behind her and saw equal that number of bikers approaching from the opposite end of the block.
They surrounded the bus on three sides, to the growing alarm of most of the passengers. The bus driver looked white as a ghost, he hurriedly reached out and slammed the door shut. Barely half an inch of glass and metal seemed a laughable barricade under the onslaught of at least two dozen men on Harleys.
Hayley watched from the window as only one biker kicked down the stand for his chopper and swung one leg over the seat. He had brown hair down to his shoulders, a short scruffy beard which she had to admit didn’t look nearly as dirty as it did outright handsome. He had on worn blue jeans, a blue long sleeved henley, and over that, a leather jacket with the sleeves cut off. As he turned, she recognized the Buzzard on the back of the cut.
He stalked slowly around the front of the bus, rounded the front, and politely knocked on the glass. In any other circumstance, Hayley would have laughed at the civility of it coming from such an obvious outlaw.
The bus driver actually seemed to be debating with himself about whether or not to open the door. Hayley half considered telling him that it would be much better for him to cooperate, then half hoped he wouldn’t, just on principle. Eventually, the door slid open and the sound of steel toed boots climbing the stairs filled the silence. The biker’s hulking frame filled the aisle as he stood at the front. His eyes swept over the passengers, each one of them cowering when his gaze fell upon them. He finally located Hayley.
She would not have been surprised if he produced a club, grabbed her by her hair, and dragged her out. But he merely crooked one finger in her direction. Hayley glowered as the other passengers, the traitorous bastards, sighed in relief. Everyone, it seemed, was fine with offering a lamb for slaughter to protect themselves. It didn’t take long to weigh her options, because they were exactly zero. She stood up, grabbed her bag with one hand and clutched her book to her chest as if it might offer her some protection, and made her way to the front of the bus.
The bus driver, another traitorous bastard, slammed the door shut behind her the second her feet hit the sidewalk, cutting off any means of retreat. The biker, whose lapel patch said “President”, simply headed back to his bike, fully expecting her to follow him. Which she did.
Finally turning to her, the biker lifted his hand, placing a finger underneath her chin to force her gaze to his. She was surprised to see bright blue eyes appraising her. Also surprisingly, his expression was far from menacing or even unkind. “We have eyes, little mouse,” he told her. “Everywhere. And you don’t belong to yourself anymore. Like it or not, you are owned. You leave when your old man is done with you and not before.” Then he took her book from her hands and tucked it inside his cut. He straddled his bike and gave her a pointed look. She approached slowly, and slid onto the back behind him.
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Chris heard them before he saw them, which was almost always the case. He dropped his rag on the workbench as Hawk and Tex set down their tools as well. All three headed toward the garage bay doors and stepped out into the midmorning sun.
“What the hell?” Hawk muttered as easily a group of riders glided down the street toward them.
