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“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘suicidal,’” Gabriel muttered. “We can’t in good conscience let you go without backup.”
“Or at least take a gun,” Grant said, getting up to head to the trap door to the basement where the club stocked all their hardware. “Whatever you want from the armory.”
Okay, I can’t deny that sounds appealing.
I followed Grant down, Gabriel close behind. The stash was impressive, with rifles, handguns, and shotguns lined along the walls. Stacks of ammo filled shelves beneath all the weapons. I browsed the secret room until I found a nice Glock I thought could put an even nicer bullet through a Wolverine’s head if need be.
“So,” Grant said slowly as I loaded some magazines. “If you somehow make it out with all your digits and organs intact, what’s your plan? If you walk out with Bates’s daughter, what then? Are you gonna hide her somewhere? Take her to her place and patch her up? Bates will come after her—he’ll come after you and rain hellfire.”
“Right,” Gabriel said, sounding serious for the first time since getting to the shop. “He won’t take kindly to you taking what’s his.”
“She’s not his,” I growled.
“She’s not yours, either, dude,” Gabriel reminded me. The gravity of his words didn’t fall on deaf ears. “But hey, why not put our necks on the line for a whore who’s tried to kill us a hundred times?”
Grant, clearly still intent on bringing me to my senses, said, “Remember they sent you this photo on purpose. They wrote your name in fucking blood. They’re going to expect you to show up, banking on our honor, and shoot you dead.”
“Which is crazy of them,” Gabriel noted. “To think you’ll be lured in by the woman he sends to kill us every so often. They must think you two are awfully cozy.”
“We’re not.” I shrugged again, feeling my temper rise. I climbed back out into the shop and made to push the garage open. Chilled March air rushed in, stirring the random papers on the floor. Our parked bikes were at the end of the drive behind the choppers Grant was working on.
I stalked between them and swung my leg over my bike, dropping down on it with a sense of belonging. Whenever I felt unsure or stressed out, this was the place I found myself. The hunk of metal and leather and gas, definitely a death trap, definitely a dead giveaway to someone who was trying to do reconnaissance.
My brothers followed me out, and Gabriel just had to point that out.
He crossed his arms. “Do you have some kind of silencer you can install on that beast?”
“I’ll park down the street and walk,” I said, putting my hands on the handlebars but not reaching for the keys.
“You can hear that bastard a half mile away.” Grant sighed as if getting tired of finding ways to talk me out of this. “You’re better off taking a regular bike. Suzie’s got one.”
He pointed to the back wall where a pink bicycle hung with those beads that clicked obnoxiously with each roll of the wheels. It had Lola plastered on it.
I couldn’t help a bark of laughter. “Fearsome Royal Flush on a pink bicycle. Wolverines will shoot me as a mercy kill. Not like I’ll be a hard target to hit.”
Grant flashed a smile but then grew serious again. “Seriously, Knox, you don’t need to do this.”
“Even if I don’t, I’m still going to do it.”
He sighed. “Thought so. Can you at least come back in and we’ll help you come up with a plan that won’t get you killed on sight?”
I looked between my brothers, who were ride or die despite my idiocy.
I sighed. I couldn’t exactly say no. They’d drag me by my fingernails if I tried to make a run for it.
“Fine. Fine. Let’s figure this shit out, you lovable bastards.”
CHAPTER 8
CAROLINE
Vane left the office only to yank the tarp off the warehouse window. The last rays of the fading daylight poured in, and I blinked and winced at the light as if it burned. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. I had been locked in dark and flickering fluorescents for almost two days now.
I knew Vane did it so I could see him better. See how much of a brute he really was, all height and muscle and violence. I knew he wanted me to look at him, but I had no such intention. Staring at a broken tile in the corner of the room was far preferable to his cold, savage gaze.
We’d been at it for a while—the same song and dance of someone stubbornly resisting interrogation. Neither of us had moved or spoken much; it was a psychological interrogation. Father brought in Vane to intimidate me into learning a lesson.
My mind, however? It was working a million miles a minute on how to escape this hellhole.