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CHAPTER EIGHT

PHILLIPA

I ’m fucked.

I’m fucked six ways to Sunday and back. I wish I wasn’t suffering from a concussion, as I might be able to think clearer.

When one rational thought comes to me, I voice it. “Why would you do that?” I let my glance roam around, landing on Freak. He’s the one who’s spoken most about changing my identity. “Why would you go to such lengths to make out I’m dead, when you didn’t even know who I was?”

“Babe,” Saint drawls. “People fuckin’ wanted you dead. If I’d left you there, you wouldn’t be breathing now.”

Another man, whose name I don’t yet know, is nodding sagely. “Don’t rightly know what the VP was thinking, but someone wanted you killed.” He pulls at a finger. “One, you could have an abusive ex who wants you out of the picture. Two, you could be running from the law, and we,” he chuckles, “might know something about that. Three, you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, crossed the mob or cartel. Probably more possibilities, but from what the VP’s said, you saved his cut. He owed you and wanted to give you a chance at getting free from whoever was after you for good.”

What he’s suggesting is that they are the good guys. There’s no doubt they saved my life and got me a doctor – if you can call him that – to ensure I stayed breathing. It drives me to ask. “If you hadn’t found out who I am, what would you have done?”

“As Paint said…” the man to my immediate left replies. “Number of reasons someone wanted you dead. We’d have patched you up and sent you off to live a new life.”

And if I had been a normal citizen running for any other reason, I’d probably have been grateful. As it is, these men have discovered who I am.

I don’t actually blame them for being suspicious. I’ve been trained to examine all areas for threats. And as an agent of the US government on their turf, and unwittingly brought into their home, I probably don’t deserve to be given the benefit of their doubt. I might understand their position, but hell, it fills me with horror.

For one, if what they’ve said is true, and I’m loath to doubt them, they’ve destroyed my identity, wiped my existence off the face of the earth. Of course, if I managed to get back to Washington and present myself in front of my boss, the deception would be revealed, but they’re obviously not going to allow me to do that. At the least, I’d reveal the sophistication of the hacker they’ve got working for them.

The only safe thing for them to do is make my death real. Goosebumps rise on my skin as I realise the predicament I’m in. How can I convince them I’m no threat? Addressing their leader, I pull my shoulders back and stare straight at Bullseye. “Is there anything I can do to persuade you to give me another chance? Or have you already decided you’re judge, jury and executioner?”

Bullseye wipes his hand over his forehead and takes a moment to think before speaking. I try to stop myself from trembling, but it’s hard to wait to hear your own death sentence, knowing you’re powerless to do anything about it.

He looks down at his hands, fingers entwined on the tabletop, then raises his eyes, first to look at the man on his right, then the one on his left, and finally at the man who, for a short time, had saved my life. I have to wonder whether the extra few hours he bought me had been worth it. My body’s one big aching mess now. He’d given me an extension to my life, but I haven’t enjoyed it much.

At last, Bullseye speaks. “You might think we’re ignoramuses, thinking of nothing more than fucking and riding our bikes, but we’re not stupid by any means, darlin’. A popular man was killed on your watch, one who became a martyr, and probably even more liked and admired on his death than he had been while breathing. The threats on your life aren’t going to go away soon, and if Saint hadn’t been around, you’d already have been taken out. I know you want to go back to your old life, but is that possible? Who’s going to want you to watch over them when someone died on your watch…”

“Not just mine,” I all but scream to interrupt him. “Six other agents were there at the time.”

“But no fingers have been pointed at them,” Bullseye responds reasonably. “The bullet went over your head.” He considers me for a moment. “If it helps, I don’t think it’s fair. But are any conspiracies based on truth or fact?” His eyes challenge me, but I have no answer. “In my view, Adams was the making of his own demise. Too cocky, too confident. If any of the blame could be laid at your door, it was a man not wanting a woman to tell him what to do.” He pauses, then regards his brothers. “Our problem is, it’s a little too convenient to have an agent like you turn up at our compound, and we’ve got to consider how to deal with it.” Again, he stops talking, and he shifts his eyes from me to his VP, who’s still standing, leaning against the wall. “VP, you brought this problem back to the compound. Fuck knows why, but it’s up to you to deal with it. Pippa, here, is your responsibility to keep close. You’ve got two choices. Decide she’s trustworthy and make her your old lady so we know she’s going to stay close, or it’s up to you to put a bullet between her eyes.”

My mouth opens in shock, my eyes flit to the man standing opposite, who barks a loud laugh. He follows it with a chuckle. “Good one, Prez.” He glances around the rest of the MC members as if looking for support, and I follow his gaze, looking for the reactions that will confirm Saint’s assumption that this is a joke. A couple of men are grinning, the men sitting alongside Bullseye among them, but others are nodding as if in full agreement with their prez’s announcement.

Reading the room, Saint, too, acknowledges his lack of support. He turns to face Bullseye head-on. “You can’t be fuckin’ serious.” His prez raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious,” Saint lets out on a sigh. He brushes his long hair back, clipping it behind his ears. “Come on, Bull. We haven’t even talked about this. Let’s get the woman out of the room and discuss this among brothers.”

Bullseye isn’t rattled one bit. He stares steadily back at his VP. “I think all’s been said that needs to be said. But we’ll take a vote on it.” His gaze settles on each brother in turn, skipping over me, of course. I obviously won’t be allowed to have a say in my future. “The VP brought a woman here who could be a Fed plant. We’ve heard her, we’ve heard him.” It’s only now he spares a glance for me. “The case isn’t open and shut. There was no way that Saint could have known who she was when he actioned his chivalrous gesture…”

“Unless he’s working with her.”

Saint launches forward, and Bullseye raises his hand to stop him. In a menacing voice, he growls, “You fuckin’ think so, Winchester? You voted the VP in. Ridden beside him. Lived with him. Fought with him.” His eyes narrow. “If I recall right, you owe your life to him.”

Winchester sinks back down into his seat and offers an apology. “Sorry, Prez, I kinda got carried away.”

From the look on Saint’s face, he’ll be having words with him later.

Bullseye continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Phillipa Owens is dead.” Now he addresses me. “Way I look at it, if you’re genuine, we’re giving you a new chance at life. If you’re not, well, we’ve already dealt with the practicalities. And Words, here, will dispose of your body with no one any the wiser.” He pauses, then asks the table, “All in favour, say aye.”

Ayes abound from every direction, the only abstention is Saint. All blood drains from my face, probably from my head, as I feel faint. I don’t know if it’s my injury or the words Bullseye has announced so coldly. It hits me that while I owe my current alive status to Saint, nobody around this table cares whether I live or die. My career has already placed several points against me.

What do I do? What do I say? Is there any way out of this? Instead of coming up with a rational argument, suddenly words pour out of me. “I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to be his,” I incline my head toward Saint, “old lady.”

“I’d do you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Woody,” Saint snarls, then looks directly at me. “And I don’t want to be anyone’s ol’ man.”

Bullseye sits back. “It’s the bullet then.”

Saint’s eyes roll up as he stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then, looking down, he asks, “Can I talk to you, Prez?”

Giving an emphatic shake of his head, Bullseye denies him, “She’s your problem, Saint. Sort it. One way or another, I don’t care.” He bangs a gavel. “Church dismissed.”

“Hey.” From somewhere, I discover a strength to use in my voice. The volume at least gets the men who are already rising from their seats to pause halfway. At Bullseye’s hand flick, they sit themselves back down. All eyes on me, I snarl, “Don’t I get any say in who my jailer should be?”

“You got the hots for any of us in particular?” The man next to me leans back in his chair and makes no secret that he’s palming his junk.

“I’d take you on, sweet cheeks,” the man I’d picked up as being called Winchester states. “Warn ya, though, me and the feds certainly ain’t friends.” He gives an evil chuckle. “Might find me a way of revenge.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “But then, maybe you like it rough, and with a little pain?”

“I’d just kill her.” The man who’s spoken shrugs. “Problem solved.” He looks over to Saint. “That’s my advice to you, Brother.”

I try to sit up straight, but the pain in my head makes me wince so it’s not as effective as I’d have liked. “I don’t want any of you assholes to touch me,” I growl. “I’ve no problems staying here.” Shrugging, I explain, “I’m injured and need a place to lie low. And one thing’s for sure. If your plan doesn’t work and they don’t think I’m dead, no one will think of looking for me here. You can do your investigating, watch me like a hawk, but I’m not going to be tied to no man. No way. No how.”

Bullseye’s grunt makes me look in his direction, only to find his eyes are on Saint and not me. Then he states calmly, “You got her, VP?”

For an answer, Saint throws back his head in exasperation, and his eyes flare as he looks at his prez. Then he lumbers around the table, pulling me up by my good arm. Trying to stand on my broken leg makes me cry out in pain. “For fuck’s sake!”

Suddenly, I’m in his arms, and instead of being handled roughly, he’s carrying me gently as though fully aware and conscious of my injuries. He can’t help his movements, though. Every stride makes each hurt sing and my head spin.

He walks me out of their meeting, across the clubroom, climbs the stairs, each step agony, then we’re walking along a corridor. I force my eyes open as he enters a room, the one that I so recently vacated. He lays me down, carefully, I have to admit, on the comforter.

My body might feel relief at being prone once again, my pounding head feeling the luxury of the softness of the pillows, my broken leg benefiting from being supported. But the physical comfort has no effect on my racing mind.

Before Saint can speak or move toward me, I spit out, “I’m never going to be your old lady. I’m never going to let you touch me. Better you just kill me now.” Saint, as I noticed earlier, is easy on the eyes, and maybe if he wasn’t a member of a criminal gang, and if his president hadn’t just announced he’d effectively given me to him, I might have acknowledged I felt a draw of attraction. But not now. And not in the next million years either.

“You think I want an ol’ lady?” he snarls back at me. “You think I want the weight of a ball and chain holding me down?” He clips his hair back over his ears. “Don’t tempt me, woman. It would be easier just to take out my gun and shoot you.”