I glare at him. Easy because he enjoys sleeping in shit motels and the adventure out there on the road. I prefer keeping to myself as much as possible.
“And after that?”
A few boxes of pump-action shotguns with similar calibre might fit on a large Dodge Ram – easy to come by from Deacon or Magnum, especially for this kind of club business. I’m already spinning my wheels on how this will work. Depending on where we get them from, we might have to scrub the serial numbers off ourselves. I’ll need room for a ramp and space to strap the bike down, but the load ought to be manageable.
“Well… let’s start with the shotguns,” Ethan says grimly. “Plenty of trouble coming up with those.”
Cody suggests a place where we could come up with the shotguns. Hollingsworth men always seem to “know a guy”. Ethan likes the idea, but mostly because it requires volunteersand everyone knows my current situation with drugging Magnum and Damara makes me vulnerable to volunteering. I need to get back into Wyatt Shaw’s good graces.
So I do what everybody expects.
I volunteer for the mission. Ethan doesn’t have to say much more for me to eagerly throw myself into the line of fire. Plus, I miss the desert. I miss the open road. I miss getting on my bike and having hours of highway to tear down without a curve or bend in sight. I’m going to kill myself trying to find good riding space in Massachusetts.
Our meeting doesn’t end until late. I always end up signing up for the suicide mission. Tonight’s mission makes me want to smoke and makes me question if I’m really that much of a tortured fuck-up. It would make better sense if there was some clear way my life was different from everybody else. I grew up just like every other Blackwood except… I’ve always had dark urges.
I heard Gideon whisper once that Ruger and I were similar, but I’ve never seen much of a dark side from the man who married a sweet teacher like Zayna, who made the best banana bread at our last Thanksgiving. I’ve never had a woman baking me banana bread like that, so I doubt he’s anywhere near as dark and screwed up as I am.
When I finish my cigarette, I take out my phone to text Ruger that I’ll need a place to stay for a couple nights after I pick up the shotguns from our supplier in San Antonio. Deacon won’t get back from his trip with Keyshawn until a couple days after the exchange. As my finger hovers over Ruger’s name – my phone rings.
My phone never rings. I pick up right away and when I hear her voice, I want to be happy, except that damned woman sounds scared.
“Zebulon? It’s Janelle.”
I recognized her from the way she said Zebulon and I would make a joke out of it, except her voice sounds panicked.
“Janelle? What’s going on? Where are you?”
I hear her let out another anguished sob. My chest hurts. Whatever happened must be bad, but that’s not the only thing concerning me right now. I’ve shot people after staring them dead in the eyes before and never felt this bizarre tug on my heart.
“I need help. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, I need you to help me,” Janelle whimpers. There’s another sob and then I hear her retching, like she’s throwing up. Maybe she’s been drinking and needs a ride home, but my gut tells me it’s more than that. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I throw my legs over the back of my bike. I don’t know what Janelle needs or where the hell she is, but I know that I will scorch the entire city of Boston to find this woman and destroy whoever hurt her.Maybe somebody touched her. Fuck…
I have to leave Boston tonight – and soon if I want to make it to the dropsite on time –but I can’t leave without making sure Janelle’s alright. If I have to bring her with me to keep her safe, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Firmly, I ask again for the information I need. “Where are you?”
Slowly, I draw my breath in and try to get her to calm down and match my slow breathing pace. She keeps crying andstammers out another effort to identify her location, stopping and breaking down in sobs before she can get the words out.
“I-I…”
I interrupt her sobs, “Angel, I need you to calm down and tell me where you are so I can tell you how long you need to wait.”
“I… I hurt someone, Zeb. I hurt someone…” She finally confesses. My body responds immediately. If Janelle hurt somebody, there would have had to be a life-or-death situation. If she’s calling me. My bike comes to life.
“How bad is it?”
She confirms my worst suspicions with her next desperate plea. “Just get here.”
She’s too traumatized to remember that I’ve asked her where to go several times and she hasn’t answered.Fuck.I’ll have to get wherever she is before the cops get there too.
“Where, baby. Tell me where.”
“I’ll turn my location on,” she says through her sobs. I’m glad that the sound of my voice snaps her to attention. I hang up and wait a few seconds. Thirty seconds later, a little bubble pops up on the map. Twenty minutes away. I can do it in twelve. For her? I’d find a way to do damn near anything.
Chapter Eight
Janelle
