“So, you’re the doctor.” He looked her over, then glanced back at her license. “Jason Lane,” he muttered to the other man. “Same street as the probation officer. Which one you think he’s stickin’ it to? Doesn’t matter. We’ll get ’em both. Leave your bike here and take her car.” He examined her keys and scanned the road. “There. Subaru. I’ll find her place on the GPS. You take her in that and follow me there.”
Like a useless sack of flour, she was shoved into the front seat of her car, a gun trained on her once she’d settled in. Halfway down Main Street, she made a bid for freedom. It was desperate and foolhardy, but you didn’t get second chances in moments like this, did you? If they took you, you were dead.
She tried to slow her breathing, made an effort to count to three, forcing the numbers out through the frantic beat of her heart.
One…two… On three, she pulled back her elbow and thrust it, as hard as she could, to connect with the man’s chin. Cursing, he swerved, almost—God, almost—losing control. But then he got it back, pulled over to the side, and lifted a hard hand to her throat, pressing until stars obliterated her vision, and she knew this was it.
“You think we need you to get to him? Try that again, and you’re dead, bitch.”
And, oh God, she believed it.
At her house, a couple of other men showed up, one peeling off to check Jessie’s house, and all George could do was hope she wasn’t there. The fourth man was different from the others. Rather than biker gear, he wore a shirt and slacks. He wouldn’t look her in the eye.
The big man—obviously the leader—opened her front door with her key. He laughed as the other one shoved her inside, and she fell painfully to her knees. They turned on lamps in every room.
“Not a single, fucking normal light in this place. Just lamps everywhere,” the man who held her complained.
“What, you don’t do cozy, Jam?” The big man turned and looked—hard—at George. “Doesn’t matter if you like it. ’Cause I got the feeling Agent Clayton Navarro likes it just fine. I’n’t that right, Doc?”
A few minutes later, the other men returned. They spoke quietly and then went back out. The big man disappeared upstairs, returning with the bag of zip ties in one hand.
“Let’s get you taken care of, Doc. And then we’ll worry about Special fucking Agent Clay Navarro.”
As the man tightened the tie around her wrists, something about those sharp plastic edges felt so familiar. Their feel was oddly grounding, but it wasn’t just that. It was…sentimental, maybe? It trapped her hands, yes, making escape almost entirely impossible, but it also served to link her to Clay, who was out there somewhere, still safe. Still alive.
In this moment, George didn’t mind the idea of dying. She would have let go, giving in to something that seemed inevitable, if it weren’t for Jessie and Gabe, who could quite possibly run straight into the trap.
And then another idea occurred to her—the memory or realization, or maybe a hope, that she could, right at this very moment, be pregnant. And if she gave up, that baby would never see the light of day. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, George wanted the chance to have something real with Clay—a baby, if that were in the cards, but at the very least, a future.
And in that moment, she knew she would do whatever it took to survive.
* * *
Steve had left Clay a set of keys to his place before taking off, giving him full responsibility for cleaning up, turning off lights, and locking the gym. It took forever. The bastard.
Although, Clay decided, it didn’t actually feel half-bad, having this type of responsibility. The kids were… Christ, they were awesome.
On his way to the door, he caught sight of one of Jessie’s self-defense training brochures—more of a card, really—offering private classes, as well as the weekly group sessions. He picked it up with some notion that he’d take it to George, maybe convince her to give it a try.
Walking out of the school, he glanced around the street, taking in details by rote—what cop didn’t?—and then stopped dead at what he saw.
A Harley. A fucking chopper, parked behind the Dumpster at the end of the building. Pulse picking up, he took another glance around, slowed his pace, and walked carefully, carefully, to the bike. He knew this bike. Like the back of his hand. Jam’s bike. Here, in Blackwood.
He’d ignored the sound earlier, sure he was imagining it yet again. He’d felt so in control when his heart hadn’t taken off like it used to, only now… Christ, this time, he’d been wrong. So fucking wrong and…there, a few feet away, was a purse. George’s massive purse, in a pile on the road.
After that, things moved too fast, Clay’s brain set to autopilot as he sprinted to his truck, noting that her car was nowhere to be seen, and turned the key once, twice, almost flooding the fucking engine.
Calm down. Calm down. He put the truck into gear and pulled out into the road, with no idea where he was headed. Wait. He screeched to a halt. His phone. He reached for it and powered it up. He’d call George. He had her number somewhere. Where was that card? It took a few seconds to find it and type in the number. It rang twice before someone picked up.
“George?” he gasped, his breathing ragged, like he’d just run a marathon. “George, where are you?”
“Oh, hey! Indian? That you, man?”
The voice gave Clay the shakes. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Ape.”
“Hey, man,” Ape went on, sounding frighteningly chipper. “Got somethin’ that belongs to you.”
