The strange thing was that none of the pushback she’d received on this project came from the Friends themselves. All of it was from the WKB. Even before the spray-painting episode, she’d twice had club bikers flank her car on the ride home, forcing other cars off the road.
Put this project on hold until the campus police complete their investigation. Once we know your work isn’t endangering you or the students and staff here, we’ll reevaluate, the provost had warned.
She had to comply—too much was at stake. But how would the WKB know she had parked her work? What if it had already gone too far to reverse what was happening? She lowered her face to her palms, wishing for a single thought that didn’t cause her distress.
Greer instantly came to mind, with his hard face and soft eyes. There was something in the way he looked at her, the way she felt when he held her. She realized, slowly, she was sitting where she had had the most amazing sex of her life, thanks to him. Heat washed through her, dispelling the chill that had been with her ever since discovering the mess in her office.
Was it only a coincidence that he showed up the same time the trouble from the WKB intensified? And the men he called friends…they all looked like mercenaries. Macho guys like that weren’t usually friends by choice. They were too competitive to join up with others like themselves. Usually, only one supremely alpha male existed in a group of men, because, by their very nature, they were a threat to each other.
She left the stairs and moved absently into the living room. She needed a plan. Could she continue quietly compiling her notes, and risk her future at the university? Surely, she couldn’t really be fired, could she?
But if she did continue working on articles based on her existing research—even without additional field work—and if the problems escalated, would she be liable? Was she willing to risk that?
And if she wrote the articles but didn’t submit them for review at strategic journals until things were clear, would she be derailing herself from her tenure track by not having publishable research?
She heard a motorcycle come down the parking area in front of her townhouse. And another, their engines rumbling loudly in the quiet night. One of her neighbors had a Harley. She assumed he was just getting home, bringing a friend with him.
Over the next few minutes, a few more bikes joined the first. She heard them now from the front and rear of her building. She got up and looked out the back window, over her tiny backyard and garage, to the alley where the bikers had stopped. Three of them, their bikes right at her fence.
As she watched, they kicked in her gate and toppled her lawn furniture on their way to the basement door. Her motion-detecting light turned on, illuminating their gang vests and shaved heads. Oh. God. It was the WKB. Here for her.
She grabbed her laptop case and purse as banging began on her front door. She tore up the stairs. There were two master bedrooms upstairs. In the one she used as a guest room, she’d set up a secret space in its walk-in closet behind a shelf she’d had custom made. There was just room enough for her to squeeze inside and close the panel.
Her security system triggered when the bikers kicked in her front door. The cops would be there soon. Five minutes. Maybe ten. She just had to stay hidden—and alive—until then.
She reached into her pocket to turn off the sound on her phone. She couldn’t risk responding to the security company’s confirmation phone call. The phone vibrated in her hand, making her jump. Her non-response would trigger their call to the police.
Men spilled through her home. She heard crashes following their progress, shouting and laughter. Her hands shook. There was no one she could call for help. No one.
Greer’s face floated through her mind, and the way he’d grinned and said, “I’m always up for kickin’ some asses.”
She called up his number, then realized she’d hit call when she’d meant to text him. She was about to hang up, but he picked up before the first ring completed.
“Dawson here.”
She held still, trying to hear if anyone was near.
“Hello?”
“Greer?” she whispered.
There was a pause. “Remi. S’up?”
“Help me—”
“Where are you?”
The door to her guest bedroom banged against the wall. They slammed into the bathroom. The door banged against the closet wall where she was hunkered down.
“…Max, where the fuck is she?”
“At her house,” another voice said, fainter than Greer’s. “Hit the road. I’ll tell Kit.”
Seconds later, the bikers were in the guest closet. The light flipped on. She could see a thin line of it beneath the compartment’s door. She held the phone to her chest to muffle the sound of Greer’s voice. She rocked back and forth in short movements, unable to sit still.
Above the blood pounding in her ears, she could hear the faint sound of a siren. Someone downstairs made a loud whistle. She listened as several sets of footsteps moved out of the bedrooms and headed downstairs. Bikes started up, loud and screaming as they sped out into the night.
She didn’t move—didn’t know if they were all gone. After a few minutes, she lifted her phone to her ear, hoping he was still on the line with her. “Greer?”
“Yeah. What’s happening, doc?”
“I need help.”
“I’m on my way, but I’m about a half-hour out. The cops will be there shortly. Stay where you are until they get there.”
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see that. “I will,” she whispered. The sirens’ whine grew louder.
“I’ll stay on with you as long as I can. I’m coming down from Wolf Creek Bend. I might lose the connection between here and there. If you need me, call me back. If I don’t answer, call again.”
“Okay.”
“Are they still there?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I heard their bikes leave.”
“Bikes?”
“It was the WKB again.”
“Shit.”
The sirens stopped. “I think the cops are here.”
“Where are you in the house?”
“Upstairs.”
“Stay put until the cops come to you, just in case any of the bikers stayed behind.”