She smiles brilliantly. “Thank you.” She walks out with Arson and Piston on either side. I watch her go before turning to face Mode.
“Spill.”
CHAPTER 10: ZARA
I nervously fiddle with my portfolio as Arson drives us towards Chicago. I watch the skyline as we draw near. The Demon Dawg clubhouse isn’t in Chicago, but in a suburb just outside. There’s something inspiring when viewing a cityscape. Like the United States, both Australia and New Zealand boast open spaces where nature reigns. However, the cities are where humans have conquered their environment. While I enjoy nature, I can’t deny that I’m a city girl at heart.
“We’re about fifteen minutes from the hotel,” Arson says. “If you want us to pick up your friend, you should probably call him and let him know we’re almost there. It would be better if he were outside waiting for us. Just in case the Bushrangers are watching the hotel.”
“Okay, I’ll call him now.” I take out my phone and place the call. Tony answers immediately.
“Are you at the hotel?” he asks.
“No, we’re about ten minutes out. Can you come downstairs and meet us out front? We’re in a black SUV with tinted windows. Two guys are sitting in the front. I’ll keep a watch for you.”
He squeals. “This is all so cloak and dagger. It’s like James Bond or Jason Bourne. Let’s go with Jason Bourne. He’s hotter.”
His comment makes me laugh and releases some of the tension I’m feeling. “Definitely more like Jason Bourne. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Keep your eyes open for the men in the leather kuttes. Avoid them if you see them.”
“Are they with Treadstone?”
“Something like that,” I say with a shake of my head. “Just get downstairs if you want a ride to the venue.”
“So bossy,” Tony grumbles before ending the call.
When we pull up to the hotel, I burst out laughing when I spot Tony. He’s hiding behind the valet stand, trying to spy inconspicuously on the two men sitting on their bikes. The only reason why the two Bushrangers haven’t spotted him is that they aren’t looking in his direction. Arson and Piston snort in unison as I roll down the window and poke my head out far enough to lock eyes with Tony. He saunters over to the SUV as if he’s walking down a runway. He ignores the looks he garners from those waiting for their vehicles.
I open the door so he can slide in. He slams the door shut and rolls up the window. Arson drives off without a glance at the bikers. They don’t seem to notice us as we drive past. That’s good news.
“What is going on?” Tony asks me after he hugs me.
I give him the condensed version of how the Bushrangers extorted money from shopowners in Adelaide and how my father finally stood up to them. “One of the members warned us that the Bushrangers were out for revenge, so my Dad took us out of Adelaide. The police got a heads up that the club members were going to cause trouble and arrested them before they could burn down my Dad’s store. They went to jail, my Dad sold the store, and we moved to Arrowtown.”
“So what do these guys want with you?” Tony asks after he listens to my story, his mouth propped open.
I squirm in my seat as I consider how much I should tell him. Tony is easy-going most of the time, but he’s also prone to meltdowns in certain situations. I was pretty sure that if I told him that these men wanted to assault me, he would melt down. He might also do something rash and attack the men even if outnumbered. I once watched him take on a group of college boys when they were hassling a girl in the quad. He has no fear when his anger sparks.
“They want Zara, but we aren’t certain why. They either hold her and her father responsible for their going to prison, or they believe she has something that belongs to them. In other words, they aren’t here to cheer her on. We think they mean Zara harm, so we’re guarding her,” Piston chimes in.
Tony remains silent as he studies the men in the front seat before he returns his attention to me. “You can trust these guys?” he asks in a whisper.
I chuckle because there is no way they didn’t hear him. “Yes, I can. They’re friends with the man who saved our lives.”
He shrugs. “If you say so.” He sits back in his seat as Arson winds his way through traffic.
When we reach the address, I lean forward and look up at the brick building. Banners and signs hang from the rooftop announcing the upcoming event. Tony grabs my hands, and we both squeal as Piston opens the car door.
“I’ll go upstairs with you,” he says. “I promise to stay in the background. We weren’t followed by the bikers staking out your hotel, but that doesn't mean the others won’t show up here. I’ve studied the building's layout, and we have an exit plan in case they pop up. I’ll keep an eye on you so you can focus. However, be prepared to move if I tell you to move. Got it?”
I give him a serious nod even though I’m having a hard time focusing on his words. I’m too excited to worry about the Bushrangers. However, I know they’re dangerous, and I shouldn’t let my guard down. The three of us move inside and follow the signs to the freight elevator.
The elevator groans on the way up, its metal cage rattling as it climbs. When the doors slide open, the loft unfolds in one long, open rectangle. Exposed brick walls, scarred by decades of use, run the length of the space. Massive factory windows line the north wall, offering a muted view of the river and the angular bulk of the Mart looming across the water. Even during the day, the light feels industrial—filtered, pale, and sharp-edged.
The ceiling stretches high overhead, crisscrossed with black-painted beams and visible ductwork. Suspended track lighting casts clean, intentional lines across the polished concrete floor, which still bears faint oil stains and hairline cracks left over from the building’s previous life. It smells faintly of dust, fabric steam, and something metallic.
Temporary runway panels divide the space, forming a narrow backstage area at one end. Clothing racks crowd the perimeter, garment bags brushing against one another as models weave through with practiced urgency. A folding table holds clipboards, call sheets, half-drunk coffees, and emergency sewing kits. Power cords snake across the floor, taped down in places, ignored in others.
At the far end, the runway cuts straight toward the windows, forcing every look to move against the city itself. When the models step into the light, they’re framed by Chicago—steel, glass, river, motion—as if the city were part of the show, whether it wants to be or not.
