Page 7 of Wild Return (Wild Heart Mountain: Wild Rider’s MC #15)

SYDNEY

A noise startles me awake. The lantern has dimmed and the generator’s distant hum has slowed. I blink slowly and rub my fingers into my stiff neck.

I must have fallen asleep next to Viking, the exhaustion of the storm finally catching up with me. But the pallet is cold and empty now. His jacket is still draped over me, and the empty coffee mug sits on the concrete floor.

There’s a muffled clank from nearby, and I turn to the sound. Viking’s silhouette is framed against the door that leads to the loading bay. He presses his ear to it, listening.

I pad quietly over to him and he leans down to whisper in my ear, his hot breath tickling my skin.

“I heard something. I’m going to check it out.”

He starts to move away, but I pull him back, my fingers catching in his hair. “Who would be out in the storm?”

He’s thinking about the missing kegs, but it’s unlikely anyone would come for them now, not with the roads closed. His lips brush my ear, sending heat through me that thaws the cold in my bones.

“Someone desperate.”

The door that leads to the loading bay is in the corner near a stack of shelves and the seller control panel.

Viking silently edges it open and slides through.

Halfway he pauses and puts a palm out when I start to follow.

He points two fingers to his eyes and then toward the cellar floor—military hand signals I remember from years ago.

A surge of nostalgia rattles through me, and I nod, staying behind the doorjamb.

The only illumination in the dockyard is the faint glow coming through the high windows.

A shadow moves across the dockyard floor, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.

Another shadow joins the first, this one smaller and hunched over.

I don’t see Viking, but I know he must be there, silently moving in on the intruders.

I edge away from the door to the control panel, ready to switch on the lights if Viking needs me to.

The shadows move closer to the door. My heartbeat quickens. I hear the squeak of rubber soles on concrete.

It’s obvious they know their way around, and they’re heading for the cellar where I’m hiding.

One shadow swings something by his side, and metal glints in the dim light. A bolt cutter.

I grope for a weapon, anything I can use. I reach around the shelving unit, and my hand closes on a screwdriver. I raise it to shoulder height, ready to use it if I have to.

They’re almost at the door when a shape blocks my view.

“Easy, fellas.”

Viking’s steady voice eases my pounding heart. The intruders stop. One of them lifts the bolt cutter like a bat.

“Set it down, nice and easy.” Viking raises his hands to show he’s unarmed. “No one’s going to get hurt.”

The figure pauses, and while he hesitates Viking lunges forward and grabs his wrist. With a quick twist the bolt cutters drop to the floor, and Viking pins the intruder’s arm behind his back.

The second intruder backs up and into a stack of empty kegs which rattle, and one falls over and rolls across the floor.

I flip the lights on, and the intruders blink in the bright light. For the first time I see they’re just kids, teenagers barely out of school.

Their shoes are soaked from the storm, their oversized hoodies dripping onto the concrete. They’re shivering, their cheeks blotched with rain and fear.

They look familiar. Then it hits me: They’ve been on a tour through here.

“We just needed someplace dry,” the older boy says.

Viking still has his arm pinned, but gently, keeping him in check without pain.

I step out from behind the door. I don’t want to get too close, so I stretch my booted foot out and slide the bolt cutter toward me, then bend to pick it up.

The younger boy darts a glance my way and I stand tall; the bolt cutter gripped in my hands.

“Are there any more of you?” Viking asks.

“No.” The older one shakes his head. “Just us.”

“You’ve been here before,” I say. “You’ve done the tour.”

The boy looks down, silent.

“What are the bolt cutters for?” Viking asks quietly.

They don’t answer.

“I’ve got security cameras,” he says, “and some missing kegs. The footage shows you two taking them.”

It’s a bluff, but the boys don’t know the security cameras have been out of action until a few days ago.

The boys glance at each other, fear bright in their eyes.

The smaller one hisses to the older one, “I thought you took care of the cameras.”

The older boy shrugs, shooting him a dirty look. “Don’t say anything.”

“Who are you stealing the kegs for?” Viking’s voice softens.

The younger boy hangs his head. “We just needed extra money, for shoes and stuff. We didn’t mean any harm.”

“How many have you taken?” Viking already knows the answer, but he’s testing their honesty.

“Just two,” the older boy mumbles.

Viking releases his grip, and the boy rubs his wrist.

“You picked the wrong night,” Viking says.

The boy shrugs. “We figured no one would be out. The roads are closed.”

I peer at the boys, wondering at their desperate situation. What would drive them out here in a storm, risking their lives for a hundred bucks?

“There’s an alert in place. Did you know that?” Viking asks.

The boy shrugs. “We need the money.”

I share a look with Viking. In his eyes, I see his past. He was this boy once.

“You picked the wrong night,” he repeats softly, “but maybe not the wrong people.”

His gaze remains on me, and there’s compassion in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows at me. Compassion is what’s needed here, not discipline. I nod and lower the bolt cutters.

“Let’s talk someplace warm.”

The kids exchange wary looks. Viking shepherds them toward the cellar door, and I follow them upstairs to the office.