Page 19 of Jazz

An arm brushed around me, grabbing my hair, wrenching my head backwards until my neck was about to snap. I gasped, my airway restricted by the angle of my neck. Another hand. I could feel it over my stomach, sinking lower, looking for the fastening on my leather trousers. Then it found the button, popping it loose, the zip falling with it. Fuck.

Something flooded my veins. Fear. Anger. Panic. A cocktail of emotions so wrapped together I couldn’t tell which was which.

My brain was slow, not quite reacting, and then jump-starting into action. I lifted my leg, shifting my weight onto my injured leg, blood rushing to the impact spot on my thigh and burning like I’d set it on fire. The kick failed. He was too close. My leg just flailed into the air behind him. He cackled, hot, sour breath covering my neck. His fingers moved under the fabric of my knickers, scrabbling at that material. Fuck.

I let my weight fall onto the metal hook above me, searing, ripping pain through my chest and shoulders, pulling up my knees, jamming his hand, and then twisting sharply. He hissed.And then I swung both legs sideways, hitting him with as much force as I could. But not strong enough.

He chuckled again. “That’s better, bitch. Fight me. I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to fuck some who was fighting for their life. Now fucking scream.”

He yanked hard on the plait behind me. I bit my lip. Hard. The tissue under my teeth popped under the pressure.

Footsteps. Somewhere there were footsteps. Hurried. Urgent. And that smell again. That woody, spicy, rich aftershave.

Chase.

The vice president had heard them too, his weight shifting, but his hand still rummaging around my waistband, trying to push my trousers down.

“Chase?” he called out, no surprise in his voice. “Fucking lower her down, mate. It’ll be easier to fuck her on the floor.”

Overhead, the metal chain rumbled. My weight sank to my knees.

Chapter Twelve

A lone vehicle occupied my warehouse forecourt as the heavy electric gates whirred open. The metal sign clattered against the metal gate.‘Henderson Logistics’. The only freight there tonight was the body of a hanging woman. No product, no bike parts, just a body. A live one for now.

I knocked the bottom of my key fob, closing them the moment I passed through the motorcycle-sized gap; the mechanism reversing and the gates slowly sliding closed behind me. Inside the concrete walls, I vanished from the outside world. Anyone who was brave enough to scale the concrete panels was met with rolls of razor wire. The only way over was to be rippedto shreds in the process. The razor wire had come from Eastern Europe, the type illegal here. A death trap with one slip.

Skinny’s van was parked in front of the doors. The first of us here. Thrash, President of the Notorious, was on his way, the Rats not far behind. Soon this place would look like a fucking party. I needed to give out fewer keys, no matter what Dougal ordered. The more people who knew about where and what this place was, the quicker the Kings would find us. And now, with Thrash knowing about this too, the word would get out.

I’d spent years investing in the place. Making it look legit. Signage. Contact numbers. The occasional lorry coming in or out collecting or dropping off legal bike parts. Police had never flagged the warehouse. It was boring. Normal. But the increasing number of motorbikes that showed up at its gates, especially in the last few days, was going to set a rabbit away.

I shook my head, pushing through the steel-infused front door into the office. The warehouse lights scattered shadows everywhere. A mass of grey, black and the lick of light.

Skinny was on the warehouse floor. The girl in front of him, but I couldn’t see her clearly. His frame covered her. Slowly, I moved to the windows, my brain focusing. My eyes seeing but not seeing. But on my arms the hair prickled, a growing weight in my stomach. Skinny shifted, just a fraction, his shadow moving off her, bright white lights catching her face. Darkness and shadows hung on her skin, something wet glistening.

Her legs flailed, kicking out at him. Where were his hands? Her head was pinned back, exposing her throat. Red dripped down her chin onto her neck. What the fuck had he done?

My heart beat erratically, my feet moving quickly over the floor and through the door, out under the stare of the warehouse lights.

She was fighting. Struggling. Trying to get him off her. My pace quickened. Urgency flooded my veins.

Skinny heard me now, cocking his head over his shoulder, creating enough space that I could see what the fucker was doing. Her trousers were open. And she was fighting every fucking advance of our vice president’s hands as he tried to gain access to her fucking cunt.

“Chase?” he called out. “Fucking lower her down, mate. It’ll be easier to fuck her on the floor.”

I jolted to a stop, staring. Just for a second. My heart skipped a beat or two, pulsing in my ears, my brain filling with something. Blood. Heat. Pressure. The trickling prickle of rage. I’d felt it before. When Mikey had gone under the wheels of that truck. I knew what was happening but could do nothing to stop it. Nothing.

I didn’t think as I reached for the handle in the side wall, forcing it up, the chain loosening. The weight of both their bodies dragged them to the ground. The woman’s legs crumpled underneath her, Skinny falling on top of her and recovering quickly.

“Perfect, brother,” his voice was breathless.

Skinny regained balance quickly, his forearm pinning to her throat, his other hand ripping at her leather trousers. The leather put up as much of a fight as she was. Underneath him, she was growling and spitting. A dog fighting a wild cat. Only this one was caught in a trap. The fight unfair.

My arm closed around his neck, my other clamping around the back, creating a vice. I’d caught him by surprise.

“What the fuck? Chase?” he gurgled, my forearms squeezing harder, my elbows pinning the sides of his neck.

I yanked him backwards, never releasing the pressure from his neck. His body went limp in my arms. I counted the seconds. The woman on the ground lay gasping. Three seconds. His entire body weight was in my arms now. There was a tiny whimper from the floor. Six seconds. I waited another four then I guided the unconscious body of my vice president to the ground. He was asleep. The blood would return to his neck. His body would come round quicker than his brain, and in those few seconds, a minute max, I needed a fucking plan.