Shit, damn, dicking fuck!
They must have taken Samantha in through the front door. And since Ozzie didn’t have that option—when running a rescue mission, the last thing you did was announce your presence with a tinkling shop bell—he was left with shooting off the padlock or waiting for the cops to arrive.
The first scenario was a no-go. The back door was made of wood. And even though it was sturdy wood, there was no way to ensure his round wouldn’t sail through and end up lodged in someone inside. In Samantha, to be precise. As for scenario number two? Well, he was sure the cops were on the way. No doubt the first thing Delilah did after he hung up was put in a 911 call to Washington. But how long would it take the five-oh to arrive? Ten minutes? Twenty? Time passing while who knows what was happening to Samantha?
Yeah, no fucking way.
He racked his brain for another solution. And then it hit him…
When he parked Samantha’s car, he’d noticed a bottle of compressed air lying on the floorboard. It was the kind of thing she carried around to dust off her computer keyboard or clean out her laptop. No doubt it had fallen from one of her handbags when he slammed on the brakes.
When held upright, compressed air canisters blew…you guessed it…compressed air. But the liquid inside a compressed air canister was basically Freon gas. So hold a compressed air canister upside down and spray, allowing the Freon gas to exit the can without mixing with the air, and it became a tool that froze objects solid.
Science aside, the point was that he had something that would freeze the metal padlock. As anyone who’d ever taken chemistry would know, once metal is frozen, it crystallizes and becomes brittle. Brittle metal breaks.
*
James Gandolfini had been a large man. But Venom? Yeah, he could pull the sun out of orbit. With massive shoulders, tattoos out the wazoo, and a black Duck Dynasty beard, he was everything Samantha imagined an outlaw biker to be.
Only bigger.
And there was no question he was rotten to the core. A snake-mean sonofabitch who took pleasure in her pain. Which was why, despite his ruthless grip on her breast, she refused to cry out again.
“So stubborn.” His hot breath fanned her ear as his thick fingers found her nipple. He rolled the tender flesh, rumbling his delight when it hardened. Samantha felt only repulsion, but her body betrayed her, muscles tightening automatically when stimulated. “So here’s how it’s gonna work. I’ll ask you a question, and if you don’t answer, I’ll hurt you a lot. If you do answer, I’ll only hurt you a little. That’s how the hard way works. And in case you’ve forgotten, the hard way was your choice, cupcake.”
Samantha closed her eyes and waited for what came next. She was going to die here. She knew that now. Any fantasies she’d harbored about rescue, about Ozzie or Washington or Carver riding in like white knights, had been obliterated when Venom told her the location of the clubhouse was a well-guarded secret.
Ozzie’s going to blame himself, she thought, a hard kernel of sadness wedging beneath her heart. It wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault. I’m sorry, she silently whispered to him. I’m so sorry I got you into this mess.
“Let’s start with Marcel Monroe,” Venom whispered. She hated the feel of his mouth beside her ear. It was almost worse than the hand on her breast. “I’m assuming he told you the Black Apostles are buying their guns from us?”
Her top lip curled back. She could have kept quiet. Maybe she should have kept quiet. The longer she refused to answer, the longer he would let her live. But she wanted to see fear in his eyes before she died. She wanted one last victory. “You have no idea the shitstorm coming your way,” she hissed. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me here today. The cops know your club is selling weapons to the Apostles. They know you’re getting those weapons from Iraq—”
“How the fuck could they possibly know that?” The pressure on her breast increased. The pain had tears pricking the backs of her eyes.
“From a confiscated handgun used in an Apostle drive-by shooting. The serial number told the tale.”
“Bullshit.” A fleck of hot spit landed on her ear before he pulled back to stare into her eyes. She had to work not to retch at the feel of it. “Our weapons don’t have serial numbers.”
“You sure about that? You sure a few of those weapons haven’t slipped by without first receiving stippling treatment?”
And there it was. The fear she’d hoped to see in his eyes. The uncertainty. “Fucking Raheem,” he swore under his breath. “I told him not to send us any more guns until he’d replaced that fucking machine. Motherfucker is always looking for shortcuts.”
“I’m assuming that’s the name of your source. Which,” she added with a sadistic smile, “the police will find out soon enough. See, they’ve got a forensic accountant scouring your accounts as we speak, and a crackerjack computer hacker uncovering all the shit you’ve been hiding. They even know about Albu Bali.”
And that was the one that really did it. His dead black eyes widened. He leaned close, his mouth open in a soundless snarl.
Samantha wasn’t sure what overcame her then. Maybe it was the certainty that death was imminent. Maybe it was the fighter in her who refused to go down without landing a couple of punches. Or maybe it was pure stupidity. Regardless, she saw her opportunity and took it.
Rearing back, she head-butted him as hard as she could. The bridge of his nose cracked on contact, the fragile cartilage giving way. She had only a second to feel giddy triumph before Venom shrieked his rage and backhanded her across the face. Wham!
Pain exploded in her cheek, making her right eye feel like it was about to explode out of its socket. The agony was so intense that she was rendered momentarily senseless. Which was why she didn’t brace herself for the fall. Not that she really could have with her wrists and ankles bound, but still. She might have had the wherewithal to at least grit her teeth when his blow sent the barstool toppling.
She hit the concrete floor with a bone-jarring crash. The barstool disintegrated on impact. Dazed, hurting, she blinked and realized she was free. Her wrists were still tied behind her back, her ankles still taped to the barstool’s legs. But the barstool’s legs were no longer attached to the barstool. They’d broken apart and were now simply two sticks taped to the outsides of her calves.