A man in a vest steps out, gun extended—aimed at me. He’s tall, broad, with a shaved head and a scowl that projects danger. “Stop moving.”
I freeze in place, meeting those dark eyes past the barrel of his gun. His gaze takes me in, top to bottom, then back to mine.
“Put the case down.” He motions with his gun.
But I can’t.
2
WREN
“I will not put it down. It’s my violin.” Even if I wanted to, I’m locked in place with it as the last barrier between me and what amounts to a bad decision. I’m full of those it seems. I’ve never made any other kind.
The man’s eyes narrow, gun aimed at the case and my heart behind it. An improvement from between my eyes but not by much. Tattoos cover the man’s arms, from knuckles to the sleeve of his shirt.
Nope. This isn’t the saving grace I hoped it would be.
“You’ll let us check it, or you’ll keep walking.” His tone is cold and holds no mercy.
Squishing my toes in the dirt sends pain through my feet. They ache and burn, and now that I’ve allowed myself to think of them, pain radiates up to my knees and hips. Swallowing hard, I do my best to hide my cringe at the thought of walking.
I must whimper because the man’s calmer now. Somehow.
His dark edges smooth out, but not enough to keep from being dangerous. “Put it down and step away.”
I hesitate. Resistant.
Sucking in a ragged breath, I break my stance—my resolve—and do as he asks. I’m as gentle as I can be now that my limbs are shaking.
Is this what shock feels like?
My feet stumble me backward, and when I’m far enough away another man in an identical vest steps from building and approaches my violin.
The case opens with a snap and a thud, and I flinch.
“Please. Be careful. It’s delicate.”
The second man looks up at me, his features darker, skin ruddier, but he doesn’t hold death in his gaze the same way the first man does. But he obviously thinks I’m an idiot.
My heart thumps in my throat as my violin is lifted roughly from its bed.
I take a step forward without thinking about it, and the gun raises again. Aimed right between my eyes.
Stopping, I wring my hands, knees vibrating with the need to dash forward and take my most prized possession from the man. He’s going to break it. And I will have nothing left.
He examines the instrument roughly, and I skitter another few steps toward him. The gun follows.
I whimper again as he taps on the top plate. “It’s important to me. Please.”
It was my grandmother’s. The only thing of hers that I have left. It’s old. Worth more to me than anything else.
She played during a time when women rarely did those things as a profession. First chair in the orchestra when she was only twenty-four. It was a hell of an accomplishment. When she taught me how to play, it saved my life. From the spiraling depression threatening me as a caged preteen.
“Give her the instrument.” A voice says calmly from the entrance. I can barely glance up when the darker man offers me my violin.
I lunge forward—crying out softly at the pain—and take it, cradling it against my chest before I back away and let them poke through the rest of the case, finally looking up at another man in a vest. A gang. Isn’t that what they’re called when they match this way?
What have I gotten myself into?
