Page 97 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Dash senses it too. “Easy,” Dash says under his breath, reaching out to hold Trigger back. “Not yet. We don’t know what we’re about to walk into.”

Trigger doesn’t acknowledge him. His entire world has narrowed to the man who took Sadie. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

Dash’s grip tightens fractionally. “Not if it gets her killed first.”

We move through the internal doorway together. The smell of kerosene intensifies, thick enough to sting my nose and settle unpleasantly at the back of my throat. It clings to every breath I take, overpowering everything else. My gaze instinctively drops to the polished wooden floor, where dark, glistening trails snake their way through the hallway and into the adjoining living room. An uncapped jerrycan lies on its side beside the kitchen entrance, another standing upright nearby, its contents already splashed liberally across the floorboards. Piled on one table are stacks of paper and recording equipment, evidence. I try to tell myself that he doesn’t plan to die here; he wants to ride off into the sunset and destroy any trace left behind. The fuel isn’t part of some elaborate trap. It’s simply another piece of whatever deluded plan he’s convinced himself would lead to their happily-ever-after. I just have to pray that Sadie isn’t evidence he needs to burn.

Tyler’s voice continues drifting toward us, completely oblivious to our presence. “We’ll leave in just a minute,” he murmurs. “I know you’re tired, sweetheart, but once we’re in the car, everything will be alright. I’ll look after you. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”

Chief raises a hand, silently bringing us to a halt just inside the hallway. None of us speaks. Even Trigger manages to hold himself still, although I can hear the quick, shallow rhythm of his breathing beside me. We exchange a brief glance, each of us instinctively listening for the same thing.

There’s the scrape of rubber wheels across polished wood and the soft slosh of liquid as Tyler lifts another jerry can, but Sadie doesn’t make a sound. Her silence terrifies me. Sadie isn’t the kind of person to sit there silently through all this. She’s smart, she’d be saying whatever she needs to say to get out of this.

Chief mouths, “slowly.” He points for us to split up, Dash and Trigger nod, peeling off in the other direction to see if they can sneak up on Tyler from behind.

Chief and I begin moving again, each step measured and deliberate. The floorboards are solid oak, but old enough that every now and then one settles beneath our weight with the faintest groan. I wince as the sound seems unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent house.

Tyler abruptly stops talking mid-sentence. Nobody breathes. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the distant ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house. Then there’s the slow creak of a wheels turning. I see Chief’s shoulders tense a fraction. Tyler heard us.

Chief nods once, and we round the corner into the living room together.

Sadie is the first thing I see. She sits slumped in a wheelchair positioned beside the sofa, her head resting limply against one side, her hair obscuring most of her face. Tyler has loosely secured her wrists to the armrests with strips of torn fabric, not tightly enough to restrain a conscious woman, but enough to stop an unconscious one from slipping sideways as she was moved. Fresh bruises bloom around her throat, ugly against her pale skin, and even from across the room, I can see that the rise and fall of her chest is shallow. Relief crashes through me so violently that it almost steals my breath.

Tyler stands behind the wheelchair with both hands wrapped tightly around its handles. His white compression shirt is streaked with dried blood where a rough bandage has been wrapped around his ear, and despite the calm way he strokes Sadie’s hair, there is something deeply unsettling about him. His expression shifts from tenderness to panic in the space of a heartbeat, his eyes darting constantly between Sadie and us, as though he can’t decide whether we’re real or simply another obstacle in the fantasy he’s built around her, as though he cannot quite understand what he’s seeing. Then recognition dawns, swiftly followed by panic. “No.” The single word leaves him almost pleadingly. “No… You weren’t supposed to find us.”

Trigger shifts into my line of vision behind Tyler, every muscle in his body tightening until I genuinely wonder whether he’s capable of standing still another second. Dash notices it too, quietly reaching across to catch his forearm before he can surge forward.

Chief steps forward alone, his movements slow and deliberate, both hands held where Tyler can see them. There isn’t a trace of aggression in his posture, only the quiet confidence that has steadied this club through more crises than I can count.

“Tyler,” he says evenly, “We’re not here to hurt you.”

Tyler lets out a brittle laugh that carries no humor whatsoever. “That’s exactly what you said to her, but you did hurt her, you sick monster.” His fingers tighten around the wheelchair handles before one hand leaves them to smooth a strand of hair away from Sadie’s face with heartbreaking gentleness. “They’re here,” he tells her softly, as though we aren’t even in the room. “I told you they wouldn’t stop until they dragged you back into their cult. They can’t stand the thought of you being safe with me, of you choosing me over them.”

I let his words wash over me, taking them in without focusing on them too much. My attention never leaves Sadie. Years of training take over almost without conscious thought. Her breathing is shallower than I would like, but there are no obvious signs of catastrophic bleeding. The bruising around her throat worries me far more than anything else I can see, and I find myself silently willing her chest to rise again. It does. Thank God.

Chief continues speaking calmly, hands held up in front of him as he tries to inch closer. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt, okay? It’s clear you care about Sadie, that you want her to be safe and well, so do we. That’s why she needs to go to a hospital now.”

Tyler continues stroking her hair. “I more than care. I love her, she’s my world. She doesn’t need anyone but me; I can fix her.”

Whatever is happening inside Tyler’s head, reality and delusion have become so tightly entwined that I don’t think he knows where one ends and the other begins.

“Tell them, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice almost impossibly tender. “Tell them you’re staying with me.”

The room remains silent. Sadie doesn’t move. She doesn’t even stir.

I watch the hope in Tyler’s expression falter as reality refuses to cooperate with the fantasy he’s built for himself. His smile begins to crumble around the edges, uncertainty creeping into his eyes for the first time since we entered the room.

Chief sees it too. “Tyler,” he says gently, “She can’t answer you. She’s unconscious.”

“She’s resting,” Tyler replies quickly, almost defensively. “She just needs more time. You’re scaring her.”

Trigger is hidden around a corner as Dash takes half a step forward, moving slowly, careful not to alarm him as he makes his presence known. “Maybe she does,” he says, his usual humor replaced by a warmth I’ve only ever heard him use with frightened children. “But she’s still hurt. Let us make sure she’s alright.”

Tyler whirls around. “No, you can’t! I won’t let you have her!” He lets go of the handles of Sadie’s wheelchair and begins fumbling in his pocket. We don’t need to read minds to know he’s reaching for a lighter. It almost feels like slow motion as he pulls it from his pocket, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

Several things happen at once.

The wailing of police sirens tears through the air. Tyler flicks his thumb over the lighter, it sputters but doesn’t catch. We all rush forward—the lighter sparks, and a flame flickers. Trigger tackles Tyler to the ground. The lighter drops from his hand, flying through the air. Dash lunges for it, narrowly missing it as it lands on the floor. The lighter comes to rest beneath the edge of a kerosene-soaked curtain, its stubborn little flame licking at the fabric until it suddenly catches, sending fire racing across the glistening trails on the floor. Dash reacts before the flames have fully taken hold, snatching up a heavy, wool throw from the back of the sofa and beating frantically at the fire as it races across the floorboards. The blanket blackens almost instantly, smoke billowing around him as he coughs and swears, refusing to give up even as the flames surge past it, spreading faster than anyone could hope to stop.