Page 44 of Captivated (Salvation #3)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Zeeb stretched. Another piece of fence repaired.

Those rednecks got nothing better to do? He scowled. People suck.

Except the absence of tire tracks told him this was definitely the work of a bull.

His phone buzzed, and he peered at the screen. He clicked on Answer.

“Hey, Toby. What can I do for ya?”

“Have you done fixing the fence? Because I could use your help.”

Zeeb cackled. “Great timing. I just finished. Whass up?”

“The post office called to say they’ve got some packages for us. Deliverance supplies. I need you to come with me when I pick them up. They’re going to be heavy.”

Oh Lord.

“What have you gone ‘n’ bought now?”

Toby chuckled. “You don’t need to know that. But you’re the only one available.”

He laughed. “And here was me thinking you wanted me because of my muscles. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

“No longer than that. I want to get there before they close.”

Zeeb rolled his eyes. “Then stop talking to me so I can get to you faster.” He hung up, then loaded the wire and tools into the back of the truck.

I wonder what Nate’s doing right now?

It was a recurrent thought lately. Most of the time Zeeb pictured him standing in front of his easel, a paintbrush between his lips, staring at the canvas in that concentrated way of his.

When he got in the zone, nothing could break through.

He drove toward the ranch, his mind flitting back to Butterscotch. That pony was still nervous as hell, but Paul said he’d seen signs that maybe Butterscotch was thawing a little.

That one is gonna take a while.

Since his talk with the boss, Zeeb had done his best to focus, but fuck , it was difficult.

At least the others had quit asking if he was okay.

Zeeb didn’t mind if they left him alone for a while.

He preferred the company of his own thoughts.

He knew Teague would be watching him, and that didn’t help.

Yeah, something’s up with Teague.

Breakfast had been noisy as usual, a lot of banter with the guests, but throughout the meal, Zeeb hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something felt…

off. Out of balance. He’d caught Teague staring at him a few times, but it wasn’t with his usual foreman’s stare, the one that spelled trouble. No, this was different.

If Zeeb didn’t know any better, he’d swear Teague was up to no good. That glint in his eyes, the way his lips twitched…

I’d surely like to see what was going on in that head of yours.

Then again, maybe not.

The post office in Bozeman had never felt so quiet.

Toby and Zeeb walked over to the counter, the door clicking shut behind them, and the fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the gray linoleum floor and darker gray metal shelves.

The usual assortment of citizens was absent: no retirees mailing cards, no kids sending letters to camp, just Donna behind the counter, flashing them her habitual smile.

And seven men who didn’t belong there all at once.

Zeeb knew them from the bar he usually frequented, not all by name, but by look. Ranchers. Mechanics. Locals who had probably spent a few too many nights drinking and stewing on things they didn’t understand, judging by the snippets of drunken conversation Zeeb had overheard more than once.

The same guys who sneered and let their mouths run over, something which was getting to be a regular occurrence.

Then he recognized one of them. Clancy worked at the post office.

What is this, Bring Your Drinking Buddies To Work Day?

He caught Toby’s eye and gave a slight nod, trying to draw his attention to the men standing around next to the rack of cards and envelopes.

Just keep walking.

But as he and Toby approached the counter, the weight of the men’s stares was impossible to ignore.

“Would you look at that,” one of them said, his voice oily and slow. “It’s the saddle queens from up at Deliverance. That is what you call that fucked-up place, isn’t it? The one full of deviants?” A few of them laughed, ugly raw sounds that made Zeeb’s skin crawl.

Aw shit.

Zeeb said nothing, but stood at Toby’s side while he spoke with Donna, his hands clenched into fists.

Another voice broke the silence, louder this time. “I thought y’all came dressed in leather. Ain’t that the whole point of that freak show you run up there?”

Heat rose up Zeeb’s neck, but he kept his eyes forward, focused on Donna who cast glances in the men’s direction, her brow furrowed.

“What’s the matter, boys?” someone said behind them. “No ball gags today?”

The sound of a fist smacking into a palm cracked through the air. “We’ve been waitin’ for you to show. We’d almost given up hope.”

Zeeb froze, his pulse spiking.

Fuck. They knew we were coming. This is not good. It was no longer a trip to collect packages.

It had become an ambush, and the goal was now survival.

Toby glanced at them over his shoulder. “We’re here to pick up our mail,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “That’s it.”

“Then maybe you should’ve stayed in your little sex barn,” one man muttered, inserting himself between Toby and the counter. The guy towered above him, and Zeeb’s stomach clenched.

He glared at the man. “Back off, okay? Right now. We don’t want any trouble.”

Except he had a feeling trouble was about to come knocking.

Someone grabbed Zeeb’s shoulder from behind.

“You like getting touched, don’t you?” It sounded as if he was laughing.

And that was it.

The push came fast. Toby shoved the guy back, just to get him out of the way, but the guy swung, then the others moved in all at once.

A fist slammed into Zeeb’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. He staggered, caught himself, and threw a punch in return, connecting with someone’s chin, but then hands were on him again, shoving, grabbing, driving him into a rack of padded envelopes.

Toby was trying to fight them off. He got a good knee into someone’s gut, but they were too many.

One man grabbed him from behind in a chokehold.

Another punched him in the stomach, and when Toby doubled over, a boot came up into his ribs.

He gasped for air, but before he could even roll over, another guy grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back with a sickening crack.

“Toby!” Zeeb tried to reach for him but he was tackled from the side. His elbow slammed hard into the floor and pain bloomed white-hot. He tried to crawl, kicking out, but a fist landed in his back and flattened him.

Above them, Donna screamed but she didn’t move.

The men were shouting now, taunts, curses, threats that no longer sounded like jokes. They were in it too deep to care who heard them.

Toby was curled on the floor, coughing, blood at the corner of his mouth. One of them kicked him in the side. Again. And again.

Zeeb shoved his attacker off and clawed for his phone, his fingers slick with sweat and blood. It took two tries to unlock the screen. He hit the emergency call button.

“Come on, come on,” he hissed, barely able to breathe.

Toby moaned, a low, guttural sound that chilled Zeeb to the bone.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

Thank fuck.

“Post office,” Zeeb gasped. “Bozeman. We’re being attacked. Seven men. They’re killing him. Send someone now!”

The woman on the line said something, but Zeeb couldn’t hear her over the roaring in his ears. Someone kicked his side, knocking the wind out of him, and the phone slid from his hand.

He reached for Toby, who was lying still now, his eyes open, not moving.

“Thought you could just waltz in here and pretend like everything was fine, huh?” That voice was ice-cold. “You don’t get to play that game. Not here, not in our town.”

The blow to Zeeb’s head hit like a thunderclap, sharp and sudden.

His vision blurred for a split second, his ears ringing as the world tilted sideways.

A jolt of pain shot through his skull, dizziness swallowing up his thoughts.

He staggered, trying to focus, but the floor seemed to roll beneath him.

Everything in Zeeb screamed to stay conscious. To fight. But the floor kept on tilting, and the blood pooling around them smelled too much like metal and fear. Their assailants had fled, and he was dimly aware of someone kneeling beside him, their voice fading.

Fading.

Gone.