by Sophia Gray
It was a silly promise to cling to. She doubted he thought it would ever come to this. And she had made the cliché mistake, she reminded herself, by going back to her business after he'd told her not to. After she'd been assaulted there twice.
But that promise was all she had. She had her daughter to think about. And it took an immense amount of willpower to mentally block off the instinct to imagine what life would be like for Gabby if she didn't get out of this. How would her daughter ever go on? There wasn't enough counseling in the world to stitch up the pain of losing a parent, especially with no closure and under such awful circumstances.
No. She couldn't even entertain that thought. She had to stay positive. She had to keep looking for ways to fix this, to make it better. She had to make sure that she got out of this alive.
"So, Mateo stashed the goods at a bakery?" one of her guards asked. His tone was strangely conversational.
Bridgette shook herself out of her storm of inner thoughts in order to focus on what the two were saying.
"Not a bakery, you moron. He said it was an abandoned building. But it took months to get even that message through the system. Martin was waiting for more details, but someone took Mateo out, remember? Some guy. Gangbanger, I think. There was bad blood between them."
"Oh."
And that was it. The two fell silent again.
Shit, why didn't she have two chatty Cathies watching over her? She was afraid to squirm too much in her chair, knowing her struggling against the duct tape around her wrists would be a dead giveaway.
She had to play the damsel in distress. Even though she wanted to be strong and furious, she had to play meek and helpless. That was the only hope she had of getting them to lose their attention enough to give her a chance.
If they dismissed her as a typical woman, overly emotional and cracking under the stress of her situation, she could create an opportunity for herself. Throw a fake tantrum that would send them for a loop. Men like them wouldn’t know how to handle a hysterical bawler, and she was under enough pressure to be able to really turn on the waterworks.
Bridgette steeled herself. Then she let loose all the dread and horror she’d been trying so desperately to repress since this nightmare had started. It coursed through her like an undammed river, and before she knew it, she was full-on sobbing. She let her face twist into the ugliest expression and gave full voice to the choked cries that would slip out intermittently between her sobs.
She started wailing. At the top of her lungs. Unapologetically. She screamed about how it wasn't her fault, how she had nothing to do with any of this. She called Martin an asshole and a dickwad and any other vaguely profane name that came to mind. She screamed at them for a while until her voice grew hoarse and her insults gradually devolved into sobbing.
And she did not sob quietly. No, she sobbed loudly, the kind of sobs interrupted by hiccups and hyperventilation. She whined and whimpered and moaned intermittently between her sobs, trying to get some reaction out of the two men stationed with her.
One of them seemed intent on looking everywhere but directly at her. The other rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath about getting stuck with “shit detail.”
Guard number two turned back to him, smirking. “Shouldn’t have called Martin’s nephew a spoiled fatass, huh?”
The first guard’s brow crumpled in a look of irritation. “So what did you do to get stuck guarding this bitch, hmm?”
The second shrugged. “I just don’t cry and pitch a fit any time I get an assignment I don’t like.”
The first guard’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t respond, and they lapsed back into silence.
She supposed she was lucky that neither seemed too hot under the collar, and that her antics didn’t piss them off immediately. They were, after all, two enforcers working for a ruthless drug lord. She couldn't expect them to have many qualms about beating the hell out of her just to shut her up.
If that had been the case, she would have stopped immediately. She didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of actually pulling this off, but she wasn't about to invite any kind of violence against her. She wasn't willing to suffer for no reason, not when her death seemed so imminent and inevitable. And being beaten to a pulp wasn't going to help her get away any faster, that was certain.
But luckily they either had orders to keep their hands off her, or they really didn't care all that much about all the noise she was making.
Either way, her ploy was turning out to be useless. All it had accomplished was causing her to lose her voice. That, and it had started her head pounding from all the tears and strain.
If they weren't going to try to calm her down and give her an opportunity, maybe she'd have to try a little harder.
If she could rock the chair, and cause it to tip over, maybe when they bent over to pick her back up, one of their phones would slip out. If she could just get her hands on it, maybe she could keep it hidden and wait for the right moment to try to get a message out to Kyle.
It was one hell of a long shot, but what else did she have? She could sit around and wait, or she could try to get herself out of this.
She had never really been the type to sit around.
So she started to try to rock her chair. Both her guards were looking away for the moment, still trying to ignore her because of her sobbing, she guessed. Maybe it hadn't been a total waste of energy.
Bridgette began shifting her weight from side to side, trying to build up enough momentum to topple over. It was working, even though she kept her movements subtle.
She could feel the legs of the chair lifting beneath her as she leaned to each side, tilting a little higher with each of her movements. At last she generated enough momentum to cause her to fall off to her right, taking the chair with her.
She felt her stomach lurch as she toppled over. She hit the ground hard, landing on her arm, crushing it beneath her weigh and the hard form of the chair. It hurt like hell. The impact caused a bright, hot wave of pain to wash through her arm and shoulder. She gritted her teeth against the sensation, trying to focus her attention on assessing how bad it was. It hadn’t been enough force to fracture or break anything, she was sure.
Between the chair and the ground, she'd have a few bruises. But it was worth it.
She waited for them to come over and set her back up. And waited. Minutes ticked by.
They were going to let her just lie there. Of course. Why would they care if she was uncomfortable?
She would have cried again, but after her desperate performance, she felt as if she had no tears left in her. She’d failed. She was out of options. Hell, it hadn’t even been that good of a plan in the first place. Just something she could do so she could feel like she was at least trying to get away.
But this was just one of those situations she couldn’t fix herself. Like it or not, her last hope was Kyle. And she would just have to pray that he could somehow keep his promise to her to make it right.
Chapter 23
Falcon
Shark paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Falcon watched him silently from his bike, fighting the urge to break something. He hated this. He wanted to check the time again, but he'd glanced at his phone just seconds ago and knew more time had already passed than he would have liked. They had maybe twenty-five minutes left before Martin's deadline.
Falcon had ridden with Shark, Bill, and Leo down the deserted stretch of highway that led to the warehouse where Martin was keeping Bridgette. He'd told all three of them that he had to go alone, and that for his plan to work they'd have to hang behind and let him walk in there on his own.
They weren't taking it well. Especially Shark, who was convinced that it would be a blood betrayal if he let Falcon risk his neck like that.
"We're going with you," Shark announced for the third time. "There's no fucking way I'm lettin’ that asshole blow your brains out."
"He's not going to do that," Falcon replied through gritte
d teeth. He wanted to be on the road, but he needed to know that the guys—Shark especially—would listen to him and keep their distance. Bringing extra bodies into this was just asking for trouble, and if things went wrong, they would end up throwing their lives away for no reason at all.
"Martin needs me alive, Falcon continued. He may think Bridgette knows where his stash is, but he's not one hundred percent sure. Which means he's not about to risk blowing my brains out. As long as he's still looking for his drugs, I'm safe."
"You think you're safe," Shark retorted. He folded his arms over his chest. "Fuck, I don't like this at all. Why the hell did she have to go get grabbed? I thought you told us you had her handled? Stupid bitch—"
Falcon was off his bike and at Shark's throat in an instant, dragging the smaller man up by the collar of his shirt. Falcon pressed his face close to Shark so his eyes were just inches from his. So that Shark could see how serious he was. "You don't talk about her like that. Ever."
Shark backed down immediately. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean it. It's just, you know..."
Falcon released Shark. "Going out on her own was a stupid move. I know. I'm sure Bridge knows that now, too. And sitting here talking about how stupid it was isn't going to change a damned thing, is it?"
Shark said nothing. "You're at least carryin’, right?" he asked after a moment.
"No. If I walk in there armed, that's just asking them to hurt Bridge. And I'm not about to stand for that. Besides, what the hell can I do with one gun? Martin's probably got himself surrounded by the best in his crew. I'd get maybe one shot off if I was lucky—"
"It only takes one shot to put the sucker in the ground," Shark cut in. "And if you cut the head off the snake, the body just flops around."
"We're talking about enforcers who get paid good money to fuck up anyone who messes with their employer or his business. Guys armed to the teeth who wouldn't have an income after I take out Martin. Not some goddamn decapitated snake. We stick to the plan, you hear? You don't move near the place until you get my signal."
Shark still looked utterly unconvinced. He glanced over at Bill and Leo, who stood by quietly, their faces absolutely neutral. Falcon knew those two may not have been happy with his plan, but they were willing to trust him. Or, at least, to respect his choice of how to handle this.
Shark, on the other hand, was up in arms, ready to fight Falcon every step of the way. He had always been opinionated. And he was fiercely loyal, too, and unafraid to show it on his sleeve. But that wasn't always a good thing, especially not in their line of work.
Falcon knew his brothers in the Raging Reapers were more important to him than any job. That was just how it was with them. They'd always stuck with each other, and there was nothing any of them wouldn’t do to help a brother out, even if that meant burning bridges with one of the cartels. They always had each other's backs, no matter what the price.
But Shark sometimes took it too far. He didn't see Bridgette's life as being worth all this trouble. Falcon knew, in his mind, she was a lost cause the moment she'd been picked up by Martin's guys. Shark didn't see why Falcon was risking his neck in some doomed-to-fail suicide mission for the slim chance that he could get her out. In Shark’s mind, Falcon was gambling everything for a piece of tail.
Falcon didn't think he could make Shark understand. Time was running short, and he needed to go. But he needed to be sure Shark wouldn't do something stupid, like storm in, balls out, and shoot the place up in order to give Falcon a chance to get out.
Falcon drew in a deep breath. "I need you to just stick with Bill and Leo. I'm going to be fine, man. I'm going to get my girl out of there and finally pay this bastard back for this." He indicated the scar on his cheek. "The others will get here. I know them. I just need to time this right. I need you to hang back so you can cover me when it’s time."
Falcon saw the small shift in Shark's expression. Now he could see a trace of concession. "Fine. But I'm not burying you. You hear that? I will never fuckin’ forgive you if you don't get yourself out of this alive."
Falcon couldn't blame Shark for trying to stop him. Shark had been with the Raging Reapers for a lot longer than many of the other brothers, which meant he'd seen a lot drug runs end badly, and a lot of relationships with various cartels and kingpins turn sour. It was only natural that he wanted Falcon to play it safe. Or, as safe as anyone like them could play it.
But that wasn't an option here.
Falcon hopped back on his bike and started it up. The thrum of the engine beneath him was comforting in a way. Something so familiar at a time when every nerve in his body was in full-on overdrive. He knew his mind hadn't fully wrapped itself around what he was about to do, or the risk he was about to take.
It was better that way. He needed that protective barrier to keep his nerves in check. He had to be numb now, numb and clear-headed.
"Fuck him up, Falcon," Bill called to him.
"Give him hell," Leo added.
Falcon directed a short salute at them. He didn't turn to Shark. He didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.
He gave his bike some gas and tore off down the road. He was ready.
# # #
He felt the wind rush past his face, arid and warm. He could smell the tar baking in the sun, the deadness of the landscape, as he continued to make his way toward the warehouse. He tried to take it all in.
It might be the last time, he thought to himself. And God would he miss it. There was nothing like the feeling of the road beneath him. The freedom of riding off, alone and unburdened, with no destination in mind.
That was the life he'd led with the Reapers for six years. He took work when he wanted it, and when he was in between jobs he could play the nomad. He'd driven through the greater part of the Southwest at some point, and even made his way around the northern parts of Mexico. It was him and the world, no one else, and he loved that feeling like nothing else.
Except Bridgette. Being with her was a thousand times more powerful than any one extraordinary moment of freedom he'd experienced over the past six years. When he'd first rolled back into town, when he'd first realized it was her he'd saved, he knew what he'd left behind all those years ago was much greater than anything he'd gained since.
He would gladly give up every bit of that freedom just to be with her. He loved her. It shouldn't have taken him so long to put it into words, but there it was.
He had always loved her. He had known that in the lonely nights when he dreamed of her body, the days when all he could think about was going back, finding her, picking up the pieces, and risking everything he'd tried to protect her from just to be with her again.
And if he couldn't pull this off, he would never get to tell her. It was the worst cliché of them all—the tragedy of not being able to acknowledge his feelings until it was too late. But, then, stubbornness had always been one of his worst flaws.
He saw the industrial yard down the highway. He would be there in a few minutes.
He couldn't afford distractions now. He had to stay completely focused. And he had to believe this could work.
Falcon pulled up to the rusting chain link fence that surrounded the group of buildings. The fence was in even worse condition now than six years ago; large sections of it sagged to the ground, making it a completely ineffectual barrier.
Martin had stationed two sentries out at the road leading into the building. Both were dressed ominously in black. Black jeans, black t-shirts, and black semi-automatics slung over their chests. Their faces were grim, and their hard glares locked on him as he approached. They raised their weapons in perfect synchronicity, training their barrels on him.
Falcon came to a stop just twenty feet out, shutting off his bike and dismounting. He raised his hands to show that he wasn't planning on pulling a gun out on them.
One approached him, his weapon still up, and yanked at Falcon's kutte. Using one hand, the other cradling the semi-automatic, he patted Falcon down. Sat
isfied, he stepped back and nodded to the second sentry.
"He's clean."
The second sentry pulled out a phone and placed a call.
Falcon could hear his heart hammering in his chest. On a primal level, he was starting to doubt his plan. His body was screaming at him to get the hell out of there and to prioritize his own survival. It was a struggle to remain in place, his hands above his head.
"He's here," the second sentry informed whoever he'd called. He waited for a second. "I don't know." The sentry turned to Falcon. "Where's the goods?"
Falcon stared the sentry down, unflinching. "I didn't bring them. I want a guarantee that Bridgette's going to get out of this first. I'm not stupid."
The sentry glowered at Falcon. His finger seemed to twitch toward the trigger. Maybe that was just Falcon's overactive imagination, though. "He says he doesn't have it."