My head spins from the sudden movement, and I blink against the dizziness.
“E-e, ah-ho,” I growl around the gag as I scan the area.
What is this place?
We’re in what looks like some kind of compound. There’s a massive steel building ahead—three stories at least—with motorcycles parked out front. Security lights illuminate the property, and I can see a high fence topped with barbed wire surrounding the entire area.
Shit. This is their murder dungeon.
This is it. This is where I die.
Bane drags me out of the truck, and my legs almost give out. I’m not sure if it’s from fear or because I haven’t been on my feet in over thirty minutes, but whatever the reason, my legs feel numb and tingly.
“Walk,” he commands, his hand wrapped around my upper arm.
I stumble and he catches me easily, hauling me upright.
“I said walk, Troublemaker.”
I shoot him the dirtiest look I can manage. No sense in cowering now. The clock is ticking. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
Bane holds my stare, and a smirk lights up his face. “There she is.”
I growl at the rat bastard, and his lips tip up higher.
Asshole.
Shoving me forward, he marches us around the side of the clubhouse with Journey falling into step beside us.
Bane punches a code into a keypad, and the door clicks open. He shoves me inside, and I stumble into a darkened hallway.
My nose wrinkles at the smell. Weed, cigarettes, and stale beer assault my senses. How very on-brand for a biker gang’s hangout.
“Tacoma’s office,” Bane mutters, steering me down the hallway.
We stop at a door, and Journey knocks twice before pushing it open.
Inside, sitting behind a large wooden desk is a man who looks like an older, more dangerous version of Bane. There’s no denying the heritage. They’ve both got the same dark hair, same piercing blue eyes, and same scary aura.
And in his lap, perched like she’s the queen of the castle, is a blonde woman in leather pants and a tank top.
Journey steps in first and lifts his chin. “Tacoma. Foxy.”
The man—Tacoma—looks up, his eyes immediately landing on me.
More specifically, on the gag in my mouth and the fact that my hands are tied behind my back.
“We’ve got a problem,” Journey says.
Tacoma’s brow arches slowly, his gaze sliding to Bane. “The fuck is this shit?”
Bane shoves me farther into the room and pushes me down into a chair in front of the desk.
I land hard, wincing as the impact jars my already aching shoulders.
“This,” Bane says, his voice dripping with disdain, “is the bitch who’s been stealing my money, but she’s not the problem Journey’s talking about.”
Tacoma’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “This... little girl is who stole your money?”
