Page 7 of The Riders’ Reign

“I… Jack… he’s hurt.” I finally manage to say stupidly.

“Hurt? He could die.” She whirls on Ace. “What the hell happened? He got shot! I know it must be to do with her.” She points at me without looking. “She’s brought nothing but darkness to my father’s life and trouble to the club.”

“Vani, you don’t mean that,” Ace says. “You’re just upset.”

“Don’t tell her what she is feeling.” Saint turns from the window and crosses his arms.

I don’t want a fight, so I grab Ace’s arm and pull him to sit with me as far away from Vani as I can get.

I speak quietly. “Let’s just wait here until we find out any news.”

He nods at me.

Trying not to let Vani’s words hurt, I sit and wait.

Please God, let him live.

3

GHOST

My head is splitting.

What the fuck happened? I’m slumped against something surprisingly soft and comfortable, but as I try to sit up, searing pain flashes behind my right eye, almost making me throw up.

“If you’re sick in my car, I’ll knock you out again,” a deep voice says smoothly.

He has accented English, but it’s very good English. What the fuck? Who is he? And where am I? I’m not sure what’s happened. I let myself stay slumped, not wanting to make the mistake of trying to move again, and instead slowly peel open my eyes. Or rather, eye. My right eye isn’t cooperating. I touch my face. The skin all around that eye is swollen, and, when I press my nose, eliciting a fresh wave of pain, my fingers come away sticky. I stare at them, making out the red in the dimmer light of the interior of the vehicle. The car has dark tinted windows, and I imagine bullet-proof glass, too. These clearly aren’t amateurs.

My hands are tied at the front, but the stupid fuckers only used a zip tie. I can break those easily enough. I wriggle my toes and flex my ankles. My feet aren’t tied. Maybe not so professional, then, or perhaps they’ve just underestimated me. After all, they’ll imagine I’m just a biker and have no idea about my past or my training.

Working as fast as my pounding head allows, I assess my situation. Zip-tied in a vehicle. Lots of pain. Maybe something broken in my face. I take the risk of lifting just my head very slowly. Two large figures sit on either side of me, one with a gun pointed at me. A man in the front passenger seat twists around to look at me.

“How’s the head?” He smirks.

“Peachy,” I reply.

My adrenaline is beginning to kick in, but I’m still as confused as fuck. I can’t recall what happened the moments before I ended up in this car. So, add concussion to the list.

The last thing I remember is getting ready for the day. Wait… leathers, I put on my full leathers. Why?

I blink and swallow against the pain it causes in my right eye. Even though the damn thing isn’t opening, the tiny muscles firing in response to movement in my left eye is enough to cause severe pain.

Focus, Ghost.

Leathers, the bikes. The ride out! We were going on a ride out.

The vehicle starts to slow, and I manage to turn my head, fighting against the nausea the movement causes. We’re turning onto an airstrip. There are a couple of hangars, and we turn again, so we’re approaching them.

An airstrip? Are they going to fly me out of the country? My stomach drops. No fucking way. I can’t let that happen.

A memory flashes, sudden and unwelcome. The oil. The slick on the road and my bike going out from under me. That awful feeling as you hang, as if in space for a brief moment, between the tilt of the bike and the moment you hit the ground.

I recall sliding along hard tarmac. Thank fuck I wore my leathers or I’d be in an even worse mess.

We drive across the airstrip, toward the huge open doors on one of the hangars. Inside are two small, private planes, plus a couple of other vehicles, which I assume are identical to the one I’m in.

Once inside the hangar, the car stops, and the guy closest to the door on my right climbs out. He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he reaches back in, his fat fingers wrapping around my wrists, and he drags me out, too. I land on concrete and am hauled to my feet.