by Wilde, Kati
But it’s clear what’s happening now: I’m leaving the compound. Where I’m supposed to lure in a fighter…but where I also might find another opportunity. One I won’t mess up again.
I suppose it just means that I’m a complete and utter fool…but I begin to hope again.
4
I come around to a hard shake of my shoulder. “Wake up, Cherry.”
Oh my god. I feel like I’ve been run over by a freight train made of pillows. My brain and body seem slow and muffled.
I just want to go back to sleep.
“No more sleeping.” Another shake jars me away from that plan. “Time to get to work.”
Work. Which isn’t the work I should be doing, in Dr. Singh’s office. No more mewling kittens or sweet old hounds or mean parrots. No drinks after work with the girls. But that had been over even before I flew to Las Vegas to see Matt.
“Cherry!” Victor snaps.
“I’m up,” I say groggily, and try to make it at least half true by pushing up onto my elbows. My hair’s in a tangle around my face and my mouth… God. My tongue feels swollen and dry, and tastes as if something crawled in there and died while I was sleeping.
Not sleeping. Was unconscious. Drugged.
Because I’m not in the barn anymore.
Victor tosses a towel at me and points across the room. “Piss and shower. Leave the door open. No funny shit.”
No funny shit. “Roger that.” I drag myself off of a stained, bare mattress. “I promise that whatever you find in that toilet when I’m done will be deeply unfunny shit.”
Or nothing at all. Judging by the state of my skin and my shy bladder, I’m badly dehydrated. I have vague memories of Hotel spilling water down my chin and chest, telling me to drink while the entire world rattled around me. And of Doc with a syringe, telling me that I’d be okay, that this would make it easier.
I find that injection site on my inner elbow. And another next to it, less expertly done, so it looks like a mosquito bite. As if after making sure I got some water down me, Victor drugged me again.
So that’s how they made sure I wouldn’t alert anyone while we were driving to…wherever we are now. A rundown house with a bathroom floored with cracking linoleum, sporting a Pepto-Bismol pink sink and tub, rusted stainless steel fixtures, and a boarded-up window.
Bending over the sink, I fill my cupped hands with tap water and drink—three double handfuls, then make myself stop so that I don’t puke it all up—and struggle to fill in the gaps.
I remember Papa saying that I’d be bait. Then returning to the barn to get the makeup I’d need—
Get free. Any way you can. Don’t worry about me. Just get to Harris or Martinez.
—and talk to Matt. I must have told him what was happening, because his voice rings clearly through my head.
And then…almost nothing. Just that faint recollection of Doc.
“Get a move on, Cherry,” Victor says from the next room.
Into the shower, where grimy soap scum darkens the anti-diarrheal pink. But the water is hot, something I haven’t enjoyed in months—our showers are two-minute lukewarm streams that spray into our stalls every night—and at least the moldy shower curtain offers the luxury of privacy. I wash as quickly as I can and then simply wallow in the delicious heat, letting it wake up my still-groggy brain.
Get free, Matt told me. But after getting free, I still have to be careful about who I contact. Matt’s boss suspects that there’s a leak in the Bureau, because Papa and the others who run the trafficking network always seem to be two steps ahead—and a few agents have been killed after their covers were blown. But there are two men that Matt trusts. Harris and Martinez. So I’m supposed to go directly to them, because anyone else might be dangerous.
But if I have to, I can seek the protection of local cops, because the chances that some random police officer is connected to any of this is slim. And that means getting their attention any way I can. Screaming, shouting bloody murder—or even attacking someone. Because as soon as I’m arrested, I can get a message to Matt’s boss, telling him the location of the stables. Then they’ll rescue Matt.
Whatever it takes.
It won’t be easy, because I suspect Victor will be on my ass the entire time. But I got the drop on him once. I can do it again.
Filled with purpose, I dry off behind the shower curtain and wrap myself in the towel. Victor’s standing in the bathroom door, waiting for me. “Get that dress on and come out.”
That dress is one of Lissa’s. Grief clogs my throat as I pull on the skintight sheath, and I wonder how many times she put it on and planned the same thing—of making a scene, of desperately trying to find a way to escape—but I channel both grief and despair into determination.
The scent of pizza hits me as I follow Victor down a hall and into a small kitchen. My stomach growls but Victor didn’t bring me out here to feed me, I realize. Instead a member of the Iron Blood—Paladin—is sitting on one of the folding chairs around the cheap card table, holding a bloodied towel to his brow.
His foxlike gaze cuts to me. “You’re the nurse, yeah? This shit won’t stop bleeding.”
Then he can bleed out, for all I care. But as he lifts the towel away from his face, I see that wouldn’t happen, anyway. The wound isn’t deep—just a split over his eyebrow—but hardly life-threatening.
Unfortunately. “Do you have any superglue?”
I ask Victor, but he doesn’t need to answer. Hotel strides into the kitchen carrying a first-aid kit. I don’t remember Papa mentioning that he’d join Victor, but I’m not really surprised. If this trip is punishment for the guards, then Hotel must be paying for leaving his post to go smoke. He’s probably glad he wasn’t given the same punishment as Bravo.
I don’t thank him when he gives me the kit, but I end up enjoying the hell out of tending to Paladin, because it gives me a close-up view of how someone beat the shit out of him. I’ve tended to enough fighters after their bouts in the Cage to recognize the damage that fists and feet can do, and someone worked this asshole over good.
That’s someone I’d like to thank. Instead I only ask Paladin sweetly, “Did you win?” and his glower answers that.
I finish up and set the first-aid kit next to the stack of pizza boxes. Only two slices left, but I’m not asking permission. I take them both and slide them onto a paper plate, then sit on the chair across from Paladin.
The slices are cold and greasy and the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I force myself to go slow, though I’m terrified that Victor will drag me away from the first real food I’ve had in ages. But he doesn’t order me to put down the pizza or to go finish up my makeup and hair—because of what Paladin is telling him, I realize after a moment.
“He left town?” Victor asks, frowning.
“Yeah, but they left their shit in the motel room.” Paladin twists the cap off a beer—and realizing that there are sodas in the fridge, I grab a Pepsi and take it back to my pizza.
Nothing ever tasted so good.
Through my fat and sugar and caffeine high, I listen to Paladin tell Victor that someone is coming back—the fighter they want me to lure, I slowly figure out.
Victor scrubs his hand over his face. “Why not just get another one?”
He shrugs. “Usually we would. But someone called in a favor.”
Because most of the fighters are chosen for their performance in the underground matches that these motorcycle clubs participate in during their bike rallies. But not all of them. Like Matt. The club he was undercover in had been working with Papa. But when a job went wrong, the Cage was his punishment. So it sounds like the guy they’re looking at now fought like many of the others…but that’s not the reason he was chosen. Instead he pissed off the wrong person.
My stomach draws up tight. Though I know that doesn’t mean this target is a good guy…well, I can’t help it. Anyone who pisses off these assholes is someone whose side I’d rather be on.
“Th
is town is full of bikers,” Victor says. “How do we recognize him?”
We. Because Victor will be watching me do this.
“You won’t be able to miss him. He’s a big, scarred fucker and wears a Hellfire Riders kutte. But I think we got pictures.” He raises his voice, calls out, “Hey, pretty boy! Get your ass in here for a minute.”
Pretty boy. Paladin’s not kidding. The biker who walks into the kitchen is hands-down the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—in real life or in movies or an Instagram feed. Near-black hair, a square jaw, and pale blue eyes. His rumpled shirt is half unbuttoned, and he’s zipping himself up…because he was just having sex in the other room, I realize. He’s not wearing a vest but it hardly seems to matter—I won’t need a name to identify him. He’s so gorgeous that it’s like a kick in the gut, stealing my breath for a second.
Then utter disappointment follows, because if he’s friends with these guys, then all that beauty is a lie and he’s an evil piece of shit.
A pretty, blue-eyed devil.
And a creep. He hands his phone over to Victor, and while tinny sounds of cheers and a fight come from the speaker, his glacial blue eyes look me over appraisingly.
“This is the virgin pussy that’s supposed to reel him in?”
“Yep,” Paladin confirms.
“Not bad,” the man decides after looking me up and down. “What’s your name, girlie?”
“Cherry.”
“‘Cherry?’ Like one of the girls out of Luc’s stable?” He addresses Paladin, not me. “Is she branded? Because this bastard’ll notice that shit.”
Branded like Lissa was on the back of her neck, as if she was nothing more than a cow.
Paladin shrugs. “I dunno.”
“She’s not marked.” Victor strides over to the table, then slides the phone onto the table in front of me and pushes play on a video.
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see the guy whose life they want me to destroy. But as soon as I look, I can’t look away.
The fight isn’t in a proper ring, or even a cage. Instead it looks as if the audience creates the ring, surrounding the pair of fighters in a big warehouse. I recognize Paladin as the opponent—so here’s the man who pounded his face in.
He’s stripped to the waist and barefoot. Sweat gleams over tanned, tattooed skin. His hair’s short, and so wet with sweat that I can’t tell if it’s brown or dark blond. But Paladin was right: he’d be hard to miss. Not because he’s stunningly beautiful like the creep here—or because he’s a big, scarred fucker, like Paladin said—but because even in this short video, he seems to burst through the screen with the sheer force of his vitality. He dodges a jab from Paladin’s fist, takes a kick to the ribs that sends him stumbling back, and then laughs—loud enough to be heard over the cheering crowd—before charging back in.
Victor clicks off the video when he’s mid-swing, and I make myself breathe again. I don’t like watching fights. I’ve seen too many end in screams of agony, or with men pleading for their lives, and death. But I’d have liked to see this one slam his big fist into Paladin.
He’s not so amused, scowling as Victor tosses the phone back. “This is a waste of a favor. That fucker’s not so good. He barely won our match and only because he got lucky. He won’t last a single round in the Cage.”
“Yeah, he will,” Victor says. “He went easy on you.”
“Bullshit,” Paladin denies, but Victor dismisses him. Instead he looks to the blue-eyed devil.
“You see that tattoo on his shoulder? He was Force Recon. If you think he’ll be easy to take out, you’re a fucking idiot.”
The devil grins, a gut-clenchingly gorgeous smile, not the least bit insulted. “Every man’s an idiot when you put pussy in front of him. And a virgin?” His eyes go hot and lazy as they settle on me. “Just let him get a taste of what’s between her legs. There’s nothing sweeter than a girl with a cherry, especially if you make her come. It’s the best fucking drug in the world.”
Yeah, super creepy. And stupid. Body chemistry doesn’t change based on a hymen. The pizza probably has more effect on the taste of bodily secretions than my virginity does.
But I suspect that he’s not really talking about anything biological, anyway. Instead it’s all some mental shit that’s the equivalent of what played out in that video. Just some guy trying to beat another guy, but instead of in a ring it’s beating another guy to a girl’s vagina. Which isn’t about the girl at all, but just some sick male superiority over other males.
“I’ll put my trust in another drug,” Victor says, and something in his tone pulls my gaze.
He doesn’t give much away. But I’ve got a feeling that he’s disgusted by this whole setup. Not the part where we’ll be abducting a fighter, but the rest of it—that he thinks we’re under-prepared and that the others aren’t taking this operation seriously enough. And what was the difference? Seeing the guy. As if that tattoo really rattled him.
As if he’s thinking that a girl and a roofie might not be enough. As if he’s thinking this guy will see straight through me, then fight his way past anyone who tries to take him down.
I hope he’s right. But with luck, I’ll flag down a cop before that, and it won’t even get that far.
Too bad my luck is pure shit.
5
As we walk down the street, with my heart pounding and my stomach roiling with tension and fear, Victor warns me again.
“No tricks. You spike his drink, then you persuade him to go outside. And I’ll be listening to every word you say.”
Though a microphone in my wig. I didn’t know he was going to make me wear one. Nothing is going like I hoped it would. My plan to get the attention of law enforcement by any means possible was destroyed before we even left the house, when a man in a sheriff’s uniform showed up…and the Iron Blood handed him a wad of cash.
I’m still reeling between rage and despair as Victor ushers me toward the Ponderosa tavern, where my target is supposed to be drinking. The streets are lined with parked motorcycles. There must be thousands of them. And thousands of bikers, too, crowding the sidewalks of this small town. Every restaurant and bar we pass is packed to the rafters and with dozens more milling around outside the entrances. Desperately my gaze searches so many faces, young and old, bearded and shaved—and their women, so many women with them—but don’t know if I can trust any of them. They can’t all be outlaw motorcycle clubs but how can anyone tell the difference? If there’s a secret, Matt didn’t tell me what it was.
But there must be someone who can help me. I know there are good people in the world. I just need one person who’ll stand up for what’s right.
Just one.
Victor’s fingers tighten on my arm. “You make one wrong move, I’ll shoot your brother myself.”
My shocked gaze flies to his.
“You think I can’t see the resemblance?” A grim smile twists his mouth. “So you just do what you’re told. You deviate from your orders, first I’ll kill you, then I’ll kill him. And I’ll bring this guy back to the Cage anyway.”
Wordlessly I nod again, my throat a solid aching lump of pain and fear, my breath wheezing too hard to work up a scream—if a scream would even make a difference. The noise inside the bar is deafening, with the Black Keys competing with a crowd of people shouting to be overheard. I don’t know how they expect me to find anyone in here. But I have to, if I want to save Matt.
To save my brother, to save myself…I have to lure a man to his death.
Because that’s what the Cage is. Even if he wins once, he’ll have to win again and again to survive—each time, killing someone else.
That blood will be on my hands.
I can tell myself that it’s not. That this is all because of Papa and Victor and the Iron Blood and a corrupt sheriff. That they’re all trading lives for their own greed and self-interest. I’d be trading a life for a life—and I was given little choice.
But I have been give
n a choice. And the choice isn’t between Matt’s life and this man’s life. I know that. Victor’s full of shit. Handlebar killed a guard and suffered no consequences. Tusk killed Lissa and I was the only one who did anything to him. Whatever I do here, Victor won’t touch Matt. My brother’s too valuable.
I’m not. So if I sacrifice this man, I’m really sacrificing him to save myself. Then what will change? Nothing. Matt will still have to fight in the next Cage round and might die anyway. Soon enough, Tusk will rape me and probably kill me. And this guy will likely die in the Cage, too.
I might be able to change that, though. Because I’ve been desperate to find one decent person to help, to stand up for what’s right…
And that person will have to be me.
“There he is!” Victor has to raise his voice over the din. “Up at the bar!”
I still can’t see him through the crush of people. I can’t even see past the person in front of me. But the decision I’ve made settles into my very soul, steadying my nerves.
Tonight I’ll probably die. But before I do, I’ll warn this man and make certain Victor and the Iron Blood can’t touch him. Then, somehow, I’ll slip away from Victor through the crowd. Maybe just long enough to borrow a phone or beg someone to send a message to Matt’s boss.
Maybe I’ll find some way to tell my brother I love him, one more time. To tell him this was my choice.
But I think he’ll know.
“I’ll be listening!” Victor reminds me one more time, then gives me a little shove.
I stumble forward only half a step before jamming up against the back of another biker who’s as wide as he is tall. Not my target. The crowd around the bar is about six or seven people deep, everyone shouting at each other and at the bartender, trying to get his attention. I force my way between two gray-bearded bikers who smell like whiskey and smoke, and swing an elbow when one of them gropes my ass.
And there’s my target, even bigger in person than he appeared on the video. I get a quick glance of the Hellfire Riders written above an emblem of fiery wheels as he turns away from the bar, tucking a wallet on a chain into his front pocket—but if he managed to buy a beer, it’s not in his hand.