The house is a mess. Graffiti marks most of the interior walls, the floors littered with bottles and cans, food wrappers, blankets, and pillows. Teenagers like to come here to fuck around. I’ve cleared the place half a dozen times this summer alone. Now it’s attracted a new kind of trouble.
With my hands steady on the grip of my gun, finger on the trigger, I take the house room by room. Clearing the front before creeping towards the lit-up kitchen in the back. Outside the window, the leather-clad men scramble around, dousing the fire burning in the backyard.
I grin. Holy shit. Preacher lit their fucking bikes on fire. And maybe a gas can or two, given the height of the flames.
The door leading from outside into the kitchen bangs open and two men hurry in.
Cloaked in shadow, I freeze, barrel aimed ahead.
“Gotta be those fuckin’ Sinners.” One of the men grabs a shotgun off the table and cocks it.
“How the fuck did they know?” the other asks. “We were quiet comin’ in. They must’ve had a scout watching the town lines.”
“Fan out and find them. I want them dead. And remember. You come across Donovan, you keep him alive. Otherwise no one gets paid.”
They disappear again, and when the house is silent, I creep around the corner and do a quick scan of the kitchen. It’s more mess. Cards and poker chips spread out on the table in the centre of the room, half-empty liquor bottles, a still-lit cigarette sitting idle in an ashtray. No sign of Grace.
I’m inching towards the door that leads to a very mouldy, slightly flooded basement, when the ceiling above me creaks. Freezing, I tip my head back and strain to listen. Another creak. Muffled voices. Then a scream.
My stomach lurches.
Grace.
Keeping my steps light, I move swiftly back down the hallway towards the front door and then up the stairs, gun raised.
My heart ratchets up a few notches as I approach the only closed door on the second floor. Light glows from beneath it.Flickering like candlelight. Or maybe it’s the fire below licking its way up the walls of the house. I press my ear to the wood, listening. It’s quiet in here, but a shout rings out in the yard. Then a gunshot.
Shit.
Time to fucking go.
I take a step back, raise my foot, and then boot fuck the door. It flies open, and I point my weapon towards the back of the room. As I enter, I come face to face with the barrel of a gun. I lunge to my left half a second before a shot pops off. Hot molten fire slices across my cheek as I hit the ground. I twist. I aim. And then I shoot.
A body drops.
I swing around, gun raised, searching for another threat, but all I find is a pair of terrified dark eyes and a pretty face.
“Linc,” Grace sobs.
Her lip is bloody, cheeks streaked with tears, legs scratched up. Like she was fucking dragged up here. She’s sitting on a filthy mattress, chained—fuckingchained—to a cast-iron radiator.
Her focus snaps behind me and her eyes widen. “Watch out!”
I whirl around but get knocked off my feet. A large, meaty body makes contact with my middle and slams me hard against the wall, breaking the plaster and relieving me of my gun. Air whooshes from my lungs as he lands a punch to my gut, and then another. An assault on all my soft spots. I double over, coughing as a well-aimed jab thrusts up against my diaphragm, and then another hard against my ribs.
“Get off him!” Grace yells, flailing her feet at my attacker from her spot on the mattress.
I jerk my knee up, landing a hit to his groin, but before I can do any more damage, I’m twisted and thrown forward. Then he’s coming at me again. This time when he lunges, I get my hands around his head and crank his neck to the side, effectivelyfending off his attempted takedown. He shakes me off and swings at me, I dodge him and then lay out my own barrage of punches.
When he throws me back, his face is bloody, chest heaving.
He spits blood on the floor, then grins and pulls out a blade. “The boyfriend, I take it.”
“That’s right.” I match his smile as warm liquid oozes down my face. Probably from the bullet that grazed me. I glance over at Grace. “Did he hurt you?”
With a thick swallow, she nods. And I see fucking red.
He launches himself at me, slashing his knife. I spring back so the blade only catches my shirt. Then I strike. A hook to the temple once, twice, and then a palm to his nose. There’s a sickening crunch, and more blood floods down his face. He stumbles back, but I keep coming, anger burning, fueling me as I pummel him with an onslaught of punches. Another hit to the face, and then another. I grab his hand, the one still gripping his knife, and twist. Then I jerk the blade up and into his stomach.
