“We’re not backing down,” I said, and meant it.
Red joined us, cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Darla knows her father’s history. She knows where the bodies are buried, so to speak. Get the daughter, get her to flip.”
“When are they moving her?” I asked.
Red checked her watch. “Twenty minutes.”
I looked at Vin.
“Shivs, Moab, let’s ride,” Vin said.
22
Darla
Iwoke up face-down on what felt like a rubber mat, with my wrists tied so tight I half-expected to look down and see a couple of severed stumps where my hands used to be. Instead, I got zip-tie welts and the special humiliation of having my church dress bunched up past my thighs like I’d just tripped over a communion table in front of the whole congregation. It was pitch-black except for the slats of headlights that slithered through rust holes in the floorboards. The air reeked of spilled gas, industrial solvent, and something sharp and biological—maybe me, maybe the last girl who rode in here.
The back of the van jerked and shuddered over potholes. Every time it hit a bump, the plastic ties bit deeper. Above the rattling engine, I could hear two voices: Bart the Hammer behind the wheel, and Sarge riding shotgun. Their conversation was the kind of shit you expect from men who use “merchandise” and “girls” in the same sentence and don’t mean Barbie dolls.
“Rev wants all the product east of Evansville by Friday. He’s not fucking around, Sarge,” Bart said, voice all gravel and menthol.
Sarge’s reply was pure utility. “Long as we don’t have to babysit the special cargo more than necessary. Bitch tried to scratch my face off with her toenails last stop.”
“Next time, just drug her heavier,” Bart grumbled. “She’s worth more with a pulse, but Rev’ll make exceptions for attitude.”
The “bitch” was me. They’d tried to knock me out with some kind of bitter pill, but I was a pastor’s kid, and I’d watched enough CSI reruns to know how to spit, cough, and fake a blackout. The pill was still hidden under my tongue, slowly dissolving a chemical burn into my gums. Every time the van hit a sharp left, I had to fight to keep from choking or just giving up and swallowing it. But I needed my senses if I was ever gonna make a break for it, and if there was one thing I was good at, it was not letting men get the last word.
I listened and memorized. They’d been on Route 62 for at least an hour; I’d counted the mile markers through slivers of dirty window. Sarge had called in a checkpoint just before we crossed into Posey County. I could do math, even drugged out of my skull. The Indiana state line was close. They didn’t bother hiding their plans because they figured I’d be dead or disappeared by Sunday. Joke was on them, my father had spent twenty-three years telling me I was too dumb, too soft, too naive to survive outside his cage, so I’d trained for this my whole fucking life.
More from Bart. “Heard they’re moving the warehouse. Cops got spooked after the raid last month.”
“Let ‘em come,” Sarge said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Maple’s got the entire city council in his tithe book. Anyone with a badge gets a cut, and anyone without gets a bullet.”
I pressed my forehead to the rusty wall. The metal vibrated in rhythm with the engine, but the inside of my skull was even louder. I remembered my father’s hands on my shoulder, guiding me through the church foyer, introducing me to parishioners as his precious angel, all while feeding runaways and junkies through a pipeline of exploitation. I used to think maybe the Lord didn’t care, that maybe this was just how things worked if you were born female and unlucky.
Sarge turned up the radio. Classic country, low and staticky. I could almost imagine him in a different life, bitching about weather and traffic like a normal person. Then he started talking again. “You think this one’s gonna last? Last girl didn’t even make it to Louisville.”
Bart’s laugh was dry as dust. “This one’s got fight. If she keeps her mouth shut, maybe she ends up in accounting or some shit. If not—well, she’s easier to bury than to train.”
I considered my options. There weren’t many. Maybe if I got my hands free, maybe if I could get to the cargo doors while the van slowed, maybe if—
The van swerved hard right, nearly tossing me into the wheel well. Bart cursed. I caught, through the window, the flash of a motorcycle headlight weaving in the darkness. And another. Then two more, tighter formation than any Highway Patrol I’d ever seen. The roar of engines was deafening.
“Motherfuckers!” Bart yelled and punched the accelerator. The van lurched forward, tires shrieking on old blacktop.
Sarge rolled the window down and fired a warning shot with his sidearm, but the bikes didn’t even flinch. If anything, they closed in, boxing the van between steel and chrome. A Harley on the left—custom paint, the words ROYAL BASTARDS MC hand-lettered under a spread-winged skull. A woman might have called it a beautiful bike, but all I saw was purpose.
They started ramming, first gentle, then harder. Each hit sent shudders through my bound arms and made Bart scream new profanities.
“Fucking Axel!” Sarge hissed, ducking his head as a windshield spiderwebbed from a bullet or maybe a brick. “How the fuck did he find us?”
Bart took a hand off the wheel long enough to grab his own gun. “Doesn’t matter. Kill the lights. Hit the cutoff.”
We barreled into a patch of highway so dark I thought for a second I’d gone blind. My teeth rattled from the impact as we hit a road divider, but Bart kept it straight enough to avoid flipping. The bikes dropped back, then all surged at once—one in front, two to the sides, one tailgating so close I could see the rider’s bandana and sunglasses even in the night.
Someone outside started firing—real bullets this time. I heard the ping and crunch of metal, the splatter of what could have been tire rubber or bone. Sarge yelled, “Hit the ditch!” and for a brief, glorious second, I imagined they were planning to dump me and run. Instead, Bart gunned it again, veering toward a gravel embankment at seventy miles an hour. The van was never meant for this kind of abuse.
Time did that weird, syrupy thing it does when you’re about to die. I saw the whole world in strobe: Sarge firing wildly, the side mirror shattered, a biker reaching with a gloved hand to smash the passenger window. Inside, I wriggled until the skin of my wrists split, blood wet and slick. If I could just get one knee up, maybe I could kick—
