“You don’t know?” I crouch, and Iron stands back, taking up vigil while I get up close and personal with the man on the floor. He scoots back a little, like he knows I want to put the gun to his head and blow his brains out.
His beady eyes dart above me to Max for a brief second.
“I see you do know why I’m here. Who else is in the house? She already told me she doesn’t know you, so I’ll kill you quickly, unlike anyone else who’s touched her.”
I hear Max’s feet shuffle behind me, but I can’t focus on her right now. I’m trusting Iron to take care of her.
“Dean,” he whispers. “Don’t kill me. I never touched her,” he pleads, but I already have the shotgun pointed at him. I stand up, keeping the gun on his forehead, and he closes his eyes right before I pull the trigger. He’s of no use to me.
Heat splashes my face and hands. I know it’s his blood. A pistol would have been much cleaner, but I’m past caring.
“You could have asked him where he was and if anyone else was here,” Iron chastises, but when I turn to face him, with gore dripping from my face, he wisely shuts his mouth.
Max shimmies to the front of my body and lifts my shirt up, wiping my face for me. She doesn’t look bothered or even grossed out. I feel strangely detached from the moment.
“Search the house,” I say loudly enough that the guys still waiting outside know to come in. “Bring me anyone who’s breathing.”
MAXINE
“Dean. Don’t kill me. I never touched her.”
Winger stands up with the gun already pointed at the man’s head, and I jump when he pulls the trigger. When he turns to talk to Iron, I pull up the hem of his shirt and wipe the blood splatter off his face, while he just stands there and lets me.
“Bring me anyone who’s breathing,” he instructs his men as they filter into the house. Most of them are holding guns, but some are like Iron, using only their bare hands as weapons. I look around the room. There’s so much wood, it looks like something out of a movie about a hunting lodge in the middle of Montana. Even the stairs up to the second floor are made from halved logs. It’s a bit much.
“Got ’em,” comes a call less than five minutes later.
“Make sure there’s no one else here,” Iron demands, not letting the others stop searching.
“Check for secret doors, false walls, that kind of shit. They are sneaky bastards,” I add.
“I found him trying to get into the basement.” Saddle, the bartender from The Dollhouse, manhandles Dylan, whose real name is Dean.
He makes eye contact with me, and his head snaps to the side so quickly from a punch from Winger, I didn’t even see it coming. “Don’t you fucking look at her,” he snarls and shifts so he’s standing in front of me.
Saddle kicks out Dean’s legs, and he drops to the ground in a messy heap. Wisely, he keeps his eyes down.
“Is the house clear?” Winger questions while I watch his profile. He’s staring down at Dean with unveiled hatred. Is that what I look like when I see them? Like you can see their deaths in my eyes?
“Think so. Masher was checking out the rest of the basement,” Saddle replies.
“Nothing upstairs but some computer shit. No stash rooms that I could find,” a man I don’t know says as he leads a group of four down the wooden stairs. All guns are stowed away, but the group isn’t any less menacing.
“Winger!” comes a frantic voice as Masher pushes through a group of men with a girl in his arms. She can’t be more than fifteen, and she looks unconscious. “I can’t wake her up. I don’t think she’s breathing!” he continues. I see red, angry marks around her throat, but the rest of her limp body is covered with a sheet. I reach up to my own neck, remembering the feel of a belt around it.
A heartbeat passes where the entire room is silent, then Saddle shoves a man to the side and rushes over to grab the girl. He lays her on the couch, keeping her covered, and lowers his head to her chest.
My feet are rooted to the spot, and all I can do is stare as the group of men huddle around the girl, waiting for something. “Her heart is beating,” Saddle announces and brushes her matted hair away from her face. When he turns to look over his shoulder, his eyes go right to Dean, who’s still at Winger’s feet. He’s the only one of us who didn’t get distracted by her presence.
Dean’s lips thin, and he looks away, unable to face Saddle’s gaze.
“There was a camera,” Masher admits softly, as if he can’t believe he’s saying the words. Saddle jerks to his feet and stalks toward Dean, but Winger halts him with a lifted palm. Saddle is so angry, I can hear the bartender breathing, so I’m surprised he stopped. I thought he might pick Dean up and break his neck right there.
“She needs medical attention,” I say, breaking the silence in the room.
“Masher, get her to your sister,” Winger commands, his voice flat.
“I’ll take her.” Saddle pushes his way back to the girl and scoops her up with gentle care, making sure to keep the blanket tucked around her. I have a feeling she’s naked. Masher opens the door for Saddle, and I hear a car start up and speed away seconds later.
