My keys are on the desk where Knox put them when he came in. My phone is in my pocket.
Ten seconds pass. Then, another ten.
I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open slightly.
This is how the heroines get captured, abused, and killed.
But I’m not doing this recklessly or on a whim. I’m a sitting duck in that room if anything happens to Knox. And right now, with the club distracted, I have a chance to get out of this situation. The corridor outside his room is dim, lit by yellowceiling lights. Thankfully, there is no one in the hallway. And I can see a greenexitsign at the end of the hallway, about three or four doors down.
The door is wide open, and I hope the reason is to let some fresh air in, not because it’s a commonly used thoroughfare.
When I reach it, there is a metal staircase down the exterior of the building. There is a dock with a number of boats, and beyond that, a large patio area with chairs and an outdoor bar and a large fire pit.
Bikers boisterously mill about.
But the staircase leads down to an unpopulated area. It seems to have tool sheds and storage.
I take the steps down, but as I get closer, I hear the faint echo of a familiar voice.
Knox.
There’s a thud, followed by a loud grunt of pain.
My curiosity wins, and I take another couple of steps so I can peer down to a large open space that sits beneath the clubhouse. It’s shielded from the roadside with a large brick wall.
The floor is concrete and the overhead lights are harsh.
And a circle of eight men.
There’s a ninth man on his knees on the ground. It’s Pax, the customer who got angry about the oil he bought.
Knox is standing over him, and for a moment, the past and present collide. When I was younger, I thought he was big and frightening. Now, I know he is.
But now, I also know so much more about him. About his protective instincts for those he cares about.
There’s blood on the ground. I can’t hear exactly what Knox is saying, but there is a terrifying realization that the man who was putting his heart on the line for me only moments ago, can change into this violent creature in a matter of seconds.
Yet, this version of Knox no longer scares me.
Knox stands in the center of the room and has never looked so powerful. The other men look at him with respect, the man on the floor, with fear.
His shoulders are squared, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. There’s no wildness to this version of him. He’s measured and controlled.
“Tell me who those men were, and why you told them how to find Jackal,” Knox demands.
They’re the first words to carry cleanly to me.
Pax spits blood, then tries to lift his head to Knox.
Whatever he manages to say isn’t enough for Knox, who raises his fist faster than I can follow. The crack of impact echoes through the space, and the man drops sideways onto the concrete.
Two of the men laugh, bumping shoulders while they look at the man in a heap.
They don’t flinch or look away when Knox grabs Pax by the front of his shirt, hauls him upright with frightening ease, and then hits him again before throwing him back to the floor.
I want to be appalled.
I should be.
