Page 33 of The Riders’ Reign

“You guess right, but until I know where her mother and brother are, I have no timeline. It’s why it’s crucial for all of us that she stops jerking us around. It’s not only me it affects, but her family, and your club, too. The girl needs to understand the seriousness of all of this.”

I don’t doubt Camile’s seriousness, but I don’t tell him that.

“As it seems we’ll be here some time, can I get some water and a bathroom break? Or would you prefer I piss myself?”

My mind goes back to the club and my friends there. I hope Rook understood that I was trying to tell him how many men and planes Hector has when I’d talked about two shots in twelve hours. I’m keen to get whatever other information I can. I know there are two planes, but I’m unsure where we are. Perhaps I can get more of an idea about our location if I can get to look around. I might be able to convince Hector to let me speak to Rook again and figure out a way to pass on some info.

If Camile refuses to agree to Hector’s terms, and they go ahead with the exchange but with just Ledger for me, sooner rather than later, it means my time is swiftly running out.

The exchange can’t happen like this. I’ve got to think of some way to help the club. Not just be a passive player, waiting to see if I live or die, or if the club pulls through or not. Fuck that.

I don’t want to go quietly. I want my death to mean something, and to give those I love a chance.

“I’ll get someone to take you to use the bathroom.” Hector’s voice breaks through my morbid thoughts. “But don’t try anything stupid. It won’t end well for you.”

For the moment, Hector’s threats are empty. I don’t know how the others pulled off convincing him that his son is still alive, but so long as he believes that, he won’t cause me too much damage. He’ll be too worried about retaliation.

Hector leaves and is quickly replaced by three of his men.

They’ve learned from last time not to underestimate me, it seems. They untie my feet so I can walk, but my hands are roped behind my back. I’m surprised they haven’t blindfolded me, but they must be convinced I don’t stand any chance of getting information about our location back to the club. They’re probably right.

I have no idea how long I was unconscious after I was shoved into the back of the car, but I doubt it was hours. Because of the strict land-use regulations around this area, private airstrips like this are few and far between. I wish I’d been able to figure out a way of hinting to Rook about the hangar so he could have figured out where I am for himself.

I’m walked through the hangar and shoved into a private office, which has a bathroom attached. There are framed certificates on the walls, and paperwork out on the desk. I wonder who this airstrip actually belongs to and what has happened to them. I’m guessing it’s one of two things: they’ve either been paid handsomely or they’ve been killed.

I spot a name. Winsberg Airfield.

I recognize it. I was right in thinking it wasn’t too far from the compound. A couple of hours, at most.

A hand shoves me in the middle of my back, pushing me toward the bathroom door.

“Thought you needed to go?” the man who pushed me says.

“You’re going to have to untie my hands, or I’m not going to be able to take a piss,” I tell them.

“No fucking chance.” One of the other men approaches. “You can piss like a girl. Sitting down.”

He undoes my belt buckle and then my jeans, and yanks my pants down, taking my underwear with it. I have no choice but to stand there, exposed.

One of the other guys jerks back. “Fuck, he’s hung like a horse.”

I scowl at him. “Like what you see?”

It’s hard to keep any kind of self-respect when you have your jeans halfway down your legs and your ass out for everyone to see.

“Fuck off,” the man spits back and shoves me into the bathroom.

They only partially close the door behind me. I look around again, assessing the small space I’m in. There’s a window set high in the wall behind the toilet, but it’s nowhere near big enough for me to climb through, even if I didn’t have my hands bound. Is there anything I can use as a weapon?

With little choice in the matter, I sit on the toilet and take a good hard piss into the bowl. I shake myself off, wishing I had use of my hands. My jeans are still halfway down my thighs, but I shuffle over to the sink. I’m thirsty as hell, and they still haven’t given me any water, so I bend low and use my jaw and nose to turn on the faucet. I stick my mouth beneath the flow of water and gulp greedily.

“You almost done in there?” Banging comes at the door.

“Yeah, almost.”

They know I haven’t run, which is probably their only priority. There’s a medicine cabinet above the sink with a mirrored front door. I stare at my reflection, Dark bruises are forming, and my eye is swollen almost completely shut. Fuck, I look a mess. I’ll enjoy hurting these bastards if I get half the chance.

There might be something in the cabinet I can use. Carefully, I use my mouth to open the cabinet and quickly assess the shelves. I spot something catching the light—a razor blade, some separate razor heads still packaged in plastic, and beside them, a can of shaving foam. Whoever owns this airstrip must also use the office and bathroom to get ready some days. I picture them standing in front of the sink, shaving.