“We need to get our asses in gear,” I say, and help Vandal with the sandbags.
But as I do, I start to think about what Vandal said. That it might lead the two men to hole up. But it might also give them opportunity. Let’s say they are from out of town, but not out of state. Maybe they’re as comfortable in this weather as we are. Maybe they have plans to go back to see Maren.
And if those men return, who the fuck will protect her?
“I got to go out for an hour,” I say suddenly, and start walking to my bike. “I’ll be back.”
“You still riding it out here, Prez?” Reaper asks, surprise lining his face.
“Said I’ll be fucking back, didn’t I?” And I storm, much like the weather, to my bike.
The first heavy drops of rain hit halfway down the road. They’re fat and warm and smack up against my skin like gravel as my bike eats up the deserted road. Within seconds, it’s torrential and soaks through my clothes. The wind’s already building, gusts pushing sideways across the asphalt hard enoughthat I have to lean into them to keep the bike straight. Palms and cypress trees along the roadside bend and shudder.
The sky has turned that ugly blend of gray, purple, and green.
A landscape that swallows sound.
I should turn back. But I want to know if the storm brings the two men out of their hiding hole.
I need to know Maren is safe.
The bait shop comes into view, and from the road, I can see the store lights are still on. It’s unusual to not see the airboats on the dock. The furniture on the dock, where you could sit and enjoy a coffee, is gone too.
Some window shutters are closed. Some are not. For a moment, I almost convince myself that I’m losing my mind. I slow down, ready to turn around, until I see the truck.
It’s parked crooked in the lot, like whoever was driving it didn’t care they’d be an obstruction. It’s big and dark and lifted. Easy to identify.
My gaze shifts back to the shop windows as I approach the store. A roll of thunder grumbles in the distance, but I miss the lightning that preceded it because I’m too busy looking at the truck.
Then, the door bursts open, and it happens so fast, it takes a second for my brain to catch up with what I’m seeing.
Maren stumbles out, blood on her face. Her feet tangle in the threshold, and she falls hard on the wooden boards of the deck, catching herself on one hand before collapsing onto her side.
Even from this distance I can feel the wrongness of her movements, the panic in her actions. She rolls over and lifts her hands to protect herself from whoever is in the doorway.
A stranger emerges out of the shadows. A tall asshole I don’t know, followed by a second.
Fuck, they must be the two men.
Accelerating the bike revs the engine, but not louder than the storm. I manage to get closer to the store before the second man looks up.
Maren is still down. Another ten seconds and I’ll be there.
The tall one fists his hands into Maren’s shirt and lifts her from the ground, but the shorter one tugs at his arm, gesturing to my bike, and they’re in the truck and tearing out of the lot before I get there.
The roar of the storm vibrates through my chest, and I have a decision to make. Follow them and see where they go. Or help Maren, who’s lying on the ground.
Fuck.
I rev like I’m going to ride by because Maren Caldwell doesn’t matter to me, but find myself fishtailing as I brake hard, pull into the bait shop lot, and abandon my bike. Maren is trying to sit up. Her hands shake as she braces them against the floor. One sleeve of her shirt is ripped at the shoulder, and I cross the lot in five strides to get to her.
“Where are you hurt most?” I ask.
Surprise and relief flood her eyes when she sees me. “I’m fine.”
I touch her cheek. “Sweetheart, the blood on your face tells me something different.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
I reach for her arms and she flinches, just slightly, but she lets me reach beneath her arms and legs. “Let’s get you inside.”
