I walk toward the warehouse. I have no plan. I have no idea what I’m doing at all besides not thinking straight. I don’t even know what I’m walking into. I’m unarmed, apart from a small Swiss army knife I found in the glove compartment of Jake’s car. It’s tucked inside the boot on my right foot. I know how to throw it and hit a target, but the blade isn’t large. If I want to inflict damage, I need to be close range.
The sun has begun to rise yet the humidity is already intense. A blast of warm air blows down low across the docks. It sets my hair in a whirlwind around my head and across my face. If I hadn’t tossed back my head to flick the strands away, I wouldn’t have noticed it. But I do. The briefest flash of someone from the right-hand corner of the building, then it’s gone. Someone outfitted in skinny jeans, combat boots, and a police issue vest.
Gabriella Valdez.
What is she doing here?
My mind races and my faltering pace slows. If she’s here in an official capacity, my eldest brother must be nearby. Along with their respective partners. And if they’re here, and Jake is inside with the King Street Boys, I’m walking right into the middle of something huge.
But my legs don’t slow their pace. I can’t lose Jake. Not now. Not after all this time of being too scared of the future. I was so busy reading everyone else, I didn’t stop and take the time to read myself. I need him. My hand goes to my belly and my heart screams with fear and yearning. Our baby needs him too.
“We need him,” I whisper to the growing life beneath my hand and continue walking. Everything else feels unimportant now. Irrelevant.
“Mac!” It’s Mitch. His voice is unyielding and comes from somewhere on my far left. “Stand down.”
I shake my head. I don’t know how to be the person who sits back and does nothing. My response is scratchy, like sandpaper, and the low wind almost snatches it away. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he orders. “Turn around and start walking to me.”
“You heard her. She can’t.” A man appears in the doorway. Just a sliver of him. His light blue eyes are hard and his brows drawn low. A tingle of awareness snakes down my spine. I’ve met this man before. I know I have. I never forget a face. My eyes lock on his tee shirt like a missile and dizziness engulfs me in a wave. There’s blood. Splatters of it. My gaze drops lower. There’s a gun in his hand. It’s pointed right at me. “She’d rather come inside, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
The breeze pushes at me, and I realise I’ve come to a standstill. It’s Adam Rossiter. Ross. Eli’s brother. He’s part of the King Street Boys? Why? How? Jake was with me that night we ran into him. He didn’t say a word. Not. A. Single. Word.
Of course he didn’t! cries my inner voice. What would you have done had you known?
Something very, very stupid. Oh god, Jake. How well you know me.
“Don’t stop now,” Adam Rossiter says. “Keep walking.”
“Mac!” There’s desperation in my brother’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s all I have.
Gunfire pings from my right. From Gabriella. It hits the door. Wood splinters in all directions as Ross pulls further inside the building. His blue eyes burn with cold fire as he aims and shoots right at my feet. I jump. And dust kicks up, spraying my shoes and jeans.
“Try that again,” he yells in the direction of Gabriella’s position, “and I’ll aim a little higher next time!”
My brother bellows a thousand different curses, his frustration evident. The words drown in the sound of thunder. The rumbling is incessant and loud, and it’s increasing with every short breath I take. My head turns toward the noise. The only part of the road I can see that leads to the docks is a crest. Bikes are riding over it and down, disappearing behind buildings. Hundreds of bikes.
Holy fuck.
Kelly Daniels has amassed an army of Sentinels, and they’re headed this way.
This cannot be good.
“Get inside,” Ross barks.
I start walking. This is what I wanted. To get to Jake. My stride appears steady and my voice is sharp, but inside I’m nothing but jelly. “Where is he?”
“He’s enjoying a reunion.”
I step inside. It’s dark. I blink several times. Ross snatches me from behind as my sight adjusts. He wrenches my arm behind my back. I cry out, the pain like a sharp knife stabbing my shoulder. The cold barrel of a gun presses to my temple.
“The beautiful and mysterious Mackenzie Valentine,” he croons in my ear. His breath is hot and close. I twist my head away and he yanks me back. Another cry rips from my throat. “I knew you’d show up. I know a lot about you. I’ve watched you. You’re quite the enigma. Beautiful, yet an utter bitch. Dominant, yet loyal. Especially to Jake. And now here you are, like a little lamb to the slaughter. Do you think he knows you’re here?” he asks, and then keeps talking without expecting an answer. “Let’s tell him. He’ll be so happy to see you.”
Ross shoves me forward. My heeled boot catches on a divot in the cement flooring. I stumble and it tears something in my shoulder. I hold back the moan of pain but tears prick my eyes.
“Keep moving,” he growls.
I swallow nausea as I right myself, and force my feet to push forward while I take in my surroundings.
My eyes have adjusted enough to view the cavernous space. It’s huge. Almost the size of an airport hanger. It’s filled with shipping containers. Old rusted ones. They’re set in neat rows, and my gaze slides down each one we pass. I’m trying to scope any kind of exit but there is none.
Ross pushes me forward again, hurrying me along. We reach a wall. It extends through the middle of the warehouse and ends three-quarters of the way along. Almost as if they ran out of material to build a whole one. When I’m shoved around the corner, my legs give out.
Ross lets me go with a shove, and I drop to my knees.
“Jake.”
His name is an involuntary whisper from my lips.
I barely recognise his face. Half of it is swollen. The rest is bloodied from cuts. His eye. His eye. The white of it is red and blood drips from the corner. It runs down the side of his cheek and splatters to his lap below, little droplets of life leeching from his body. He’s strapped to a chair—his legs and arms immobile.
His shirt has been torn from his body and hangs from his waist in tatters. His chest is covered with dirt and sweat and blood. Traitor has been carved across his glorious chest in harsh, angular letters.
Tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. “Jake,” I sob, louder. The man I love has been tortured and battered and rage burns hot inside me.
His head lifts so very slow, the effort visibly painstaking. He sways as he stares at me. “No,” he breathes in ragged voice, his fear visible.
“What is she doing here?”