“Up,” a voice says.
I scramble upright, knees stiff, ankles shaky. The zip ties pull at my shoulders when I try to balance. I can’t see, so I trust the grip on my arm—hate that I have to—because falling would just give them another reason to hurt me.
They guide me down.
The ground is uneven. Dirt, maybe. Leaves. A rock scrapes the sole of my shoe. My stomach pitches. I focus on keeping my steps small.
My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
A door creaks open.
Warm air spills out, stale and dusty. A house. Not an abandoned warehouse. Not a van-to-van transfer. A house.
They steer me through a doorway. Floorboards creak under my feet. The smell changes: old wood, cigarette smoke soaked into curtains, the sharp tang of something antiseptic that makes my throat tighten.
The door shuts behind me.
A deadbolt clicks.
For a moment, the sound is all I can hear. Then voices. Several. Low, overlapping. Men. My mouth goes dry. Hands shove me forward until the backs of my knees hit something—maybe a chair, maybe a couch.
“Sit.”
I obey. My wrists ache behind me, numb and stinging at once. I try to roll my shoulders, ease the tension, and the zip ties scrape my skin like a warning. Someone stands close enough that I can feel their body heat. I can smell cologne layered over sweat.
A rough hand grips the knot of the blindfold.
“Don’t move,” he says.
As if I could.
The fabric lifts. Light stabs into my eyes, white-hot and merciless. I blink hard, tears spilling out instantly, and for a second everything is a blurry wash of shapes and shadows.
When my vision clears, my breath catches.
I’m in a living room that looks like it used to be someone’s home and has been turned into something else. The windows are covered with dark sheets. A single lamp throws yellow light across worn furniture. The coffee table is shoved aside to make room for a metal folding chair—my chair—and a second chair across from me.
Men crowd the room.
Not two.
Not three.
At least seven, maybe more. Some lean against the walls, arms crossed. Some sit on the couch. One stands near the hallway with a gun low at his thigh like it’s part of him. Another has his phone out, screen glowing.
They’re dressed in black and denim and leather. Cuts. Patches. My stomach sinks further.
Bikers. The Nameless Ones MC according to their patches. I have no clue who any of these men are.
The symbols mean something, even if I don’t know exactly what. The air around them feels organized. Like hierarchy. Like rules.
Like violence with a structure. One man steps forward from the cluster.
He’s older than the rest, mid-sixties maybe. Built like a doorframe. Beard trimmed close. Eyes flat, hard, and amused in a way that makes my skin crawl. His cut is more decorated. And on his chest, stitched clean and bold, is the president patch.
He looks at me like I’m a tool he’s finally gotten his hands on.
“Well,” he states, voice calm. “There she is.”
