Текст книги "Rebel"
Автор книги: Callie Hart
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
REBEL
Being the president of an MC is a lot like being the president of a small country. There are things to consider. Firstly, traffic laws. Convince your constituents to not ride around in their cuts. If they ride around wearing their cuts, people will be able to identify them. And where’s the common sense in that? Secondly, diversity is king. If your entire club is made up of white guys with shaved heads, you start to look suspicious. And besides, no one Widow Maker is better than another, regardless of the color of his or her skin. The only hierarchy we subscribe to is this: Prez’s word is final. If Prez isn’t around, V.P.’s word is final. Thirdly, gender equality. Ain’t a single man born on this planet without the good graces of a woman. Clubs that refuse women in their ranks are fucking retarded. After the cuts, what’s going to attract more attention than a bunch of angry-looking dudes riding around on motorcycles? Nothing. Throw a couple of women in the mix and suddenly you’re a hell of a lot less conspicuous.
The Widow Makers are black, white, Asian, Hispanic, male, female—you name it, we got it. Our bikes aren’t the kind of things you’d see being built on Orange County Choppers. Yes, a good percent of the Widowers’ rides are monstrous cruisers built out of chrome, exhaust pipes fatter than they have any sane reason to be, but we have street fighters too. Sports bikes built for speed and cornering quickly. Tourers built for comfort. Road-legal dirt bikes that can turn on a hairpin and jump a fucking mini van if they have to.
The Widow Makers aren’t your average MC. We’re a bit of everything. We blend into the background. We’re covert. We fly under the radar. We’re the only MC in the United States of America that operates like this. You may be asking yourself why we hide who we are from the prying eyes of the public. The answer to that question is simple:
We’re not just a motorcycle club. We’re criminals. And we’re really fucking good at not getting caught.
******
Julio’s Compound
Rebel
I hear the cars pulling up around four am. Carnie hears it, too. He was sleeping, silent, not one muscle twitching, but the low rumble of tires on hard-packed earth has jolted him awake. His Beretta—he calls her Margo. After his mother—is in his hand, ready to shoot. One of Julio Perez’s employees lifts his semi-automatic, aiming it at Carnie’s face.
“Calmate,” the Mexican says. He has the look of a stone-cold killer about him. There’s nothing going on behind those blank, dark eyes of his. Carnie winces up at the guy, shifting in his chair. Margo goes back into the waistband of his jeans.
“Do I not look calm to you, asshole?” he asks. Carnie hasn’t been prospecting for us for long, but he’s got fucking stones like bowling balls. He’s never really looked the part—tall and gangly, glasses, side parting. He’s basically a thirty-three-year-old hipster redneck. I found him half beaten to death just outside a bar in Midland City, Alabama. I wasn’t going to waste my time scraping him off the ground, but Cade went through his pockets and found out he had his light aircraft license. Not surprising, given that Midland City’s the location of Dothan’s regional airport. He was a crop sprayer for a living before we picked him up. Spent his time dusting fields with enough weed killer to deform an entire county.
After we hauled his ass to the hospital and kept an eye on him for a while, he became our prospect. When we’re outside the clubhouse, the guy is on my hip at all times, learning how the fuck to behave himself. Other times, he’s also a runner. What he runs at any one time depended solely on how we are making our money that month. Pot. Guns. Stolen goods. If it’s illegal, odds are Carnie’s hauled it across state lines in the back of his Cessna 208. There’s only one thing we don’t touch, and that’s girls.
Until now.
Andreas Medina, Julio’s right-hand man, makes a low tutting sound, looking up from the bank of security cameras he’s studying. “What you want with this bitch, anyway?” he asks.
I remain slouched in the leather armchair of Julio’s security center, eyeing the two punks that have been left behind to keep watch over us. Just because Julio’s doing us this favor doesn’t mean he trusts us. Especially since I’m bribing him. “She’s hot,” I tell Andreas. “I saw Hector’s post go live and thought to myself, ‘Now that’s the kind of pussy I need in my collection.’”
Andreas grunts. It’s plainly clear that he doesn’t believe me. News about what happened in that side street in Seattle is spreading fast. Los Oscuros and the Widow Makers are at war. Everyone with enough common sense is battening down the hatches, preparing for the storm to hit. Julio and all of his men must know that this girl we’re paying them to fetch for us was involved in my uncle’s death somehow. That’s why I’m paying the fat old fuck a hundred grand to do this job for me.
The sound of approaching vehicles grows louder. Andreas doesn’t ask me any more questions about the girl; he’s too busy verifying that the cars slowly rolling into view on the security cameras are the same seven cars that left the compound four hours ago. A burst of static erupts from the radio sitting on the desk in front of Andreas. “La tenemos. Abre la puerta,” a voice advises. We got her. Open the gates. Doesn’t sound like Julio, but Andreas does as he’s told. On the grainy, pixelated screen, a set of huge, high gates swing outwards, letting the cars drive slowly, one at a time into the compound.
Carnie shoots me a stern look, and then stands. “Time for us to be going then.”
We should probably stick around inside and observe etiquette. After a business dealing with Julio, it’s customary to sit with the man and have a beer. We can’t afford that luxury tonight, though. I’m bone tired, and we need to get this girl as far away from California as possible. If we loiter here too long, the likelihood of her being murdered by Los Oscuros grows by the minute. I get to my feet, stretching out my body.
“Been a blast as always. Boys.”
Andreas jumps up too, holding out a hand. “Why don’t you just slow your roll, ese? Julio might want to confirm the exchange.” I pull out my cell phone and pull up the transaction confirmation. One hundred thousand dollars, cleared into the account details Julio gave me.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” I say, pushing past him. The guy who threatened Carnie with his semi-automatic a moment ago steps in front of me, blocking my way. He lifts his chin, daring me to do something. “What do you think happens if I don’t walk out of here?” I whisper. “What do you think happens if there’s even a scratch on me when I leave?”
The guy blinks at me. He doesn’t move.
“It’s okay, Sam. You can let him by.” Andreas places a hand on the guy’s shoulder, which seems to descale the threat level somewhat. They both move out of the way so I can exit, swiftly followed by Carnie. “Hey, Rebel,” Andreas calls after us. I glance over my shoulder. “There will be an end to this, y’know. You can’t hold it over him forever. Julio ain’t just some punk you can fuck with. We will get the files back.”
I give him a lazy smile, flashing teeth. I’m not afraid of you. “As always, such a pleasure doing business with you, Andreas. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”
As Carnie and I hurry out of Julio’s villa, three half-naked women run down the corridor in front of us, screaming. They vanish through a side door, tits and ass flashing everywhere, and then they slam the door closed behind them. “Working girls?” Carnie murmurs.
“I doubt they’re here for the free tacos.”
Carnie spits on the ground, shaking his head at another guard as we exit though the front door. Outside, Julio Perez is heaving himself out of a dark sedan, groaning with the effort. He’s wearing fucking shades at night. Carnie elbows me, jerking his head at the fat fucker, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
I laugh under my breath. “Right?”
Julio catches sight of us—must see us snickering at him—and flips us off. He finally manages to pull himself out of the car. “Motherfuckers,” he growls. “You should think twice before laughing at my expense. What you think this is, a fucking circus?”
“Something like that,” I answer. “Where’s the girl?”
“I slit her throat and left her ass out in the desert,” Julio snaps. The driver of the dark sedan climbs out of the car and stands there, staring at us like he expects us to start shooting or something. I know it’s a bluff, though. I have dirt on Julio. The kind of dirt even an Untouchable like him wouldn’t want getting out. He’d never risk the files I stole from him being made public knowledge. The cops already wanna lock him up; it’s not them he’s afraid of, though. It’s other gangs that would come after him if they caught wind of some of the stuff he’s been up to. Double-dealing. Skimming. Flat out stealing from the skinheads. Bad shit.
“How ’bout you stop wasting my time and hand her over, Perez? That way we can get out of your hair and you can get your ass to bed.”
Julio grunts, clearly unhappy. He pulls the door of the car open wider and moves aside, and there she is, sitting on the back seat. The blurry girl from Cade’s security footage. The girl who witnessed my uncle being murdered. Her hair, thick and dark, has been pinned up into fancy twists and knots. Dark eyes peer out of the darkness, fixed on me, wide and round—she’s afraid. I can see it on her the moment our gazes lock. She’s wearing some sort of dress, looks like a fucking prom dress. All poofy and flouncy. That’s the last thing I fucking need.
Julio jerks his thumb at her, gesturing for her to get out of the car. She slides forward, gathering up the dress so she can clamber out into the night. She’s taller then I expected. Still a foot shorter than me, but taller than she appeared in that video as Hector Ramirez’s men tossed her in the back of that van. She doesn’t move. Looking from me to Carnie and then back to Julio, she doesn’t seem to know who to be more afraid of. I take a step forward.
“What’s your name?” She looks at me, throat bobbing, eyes shining brightly, and shakes her head. “What, you’re not gonna tell me your name?” I ask.
She shakes her head again.
“All right. Suits me fine.” I turn to Julio. “Andreas has proof of funds. We’re done here.”
Julio paces toward me, his wide body swinging as he walks. He speaks so only I can hear him. “You may have me by the balls, but you know me. You know the type of man I am, Rebel. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“You’re telling me that you’re working on a way to kill me, I’m betting.” Julio just stares me in the eye, neither confirming nor denying. I slap him on his shoulder. “Good luck with that, man. You know where you can find me.”
But Julio won’t kill me. He won’t even fuck with my club. He knows there are measures that have been taken. He knows the repercussions, what will happen to him and his familia if he does.
His men have gathered in front of the villa, glaring at us, as Carnie and I begin walking toward the gates. As we pass by the car, Carnie takes hold of the girl’s wrist and tugs her along behind him. He’s firm but not rough. She looks like she’s about to have heart failure, though. She pulls back, trying to wrestle her arm free. Carnie doesn’t let go. He doesn’t give her any other option but to follow us. She stumbles, crying out, but Carnie simply pulls her to her feet and carries on walking.
If Julio’s gonna shoot us in the back, now’s when it’ll happen. But as we reach the gate, the high wrought iron barricade slowly swings open.
“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t come back here,” Julio calls after us. I don’t look back. Neither does Carnie. We walk right out of the compound, the girl in tow behind us, to where we’ve left our rides.
Carnie starts the engine of his bike, revving it so we can’t be heard. “What we gonna do about the dress?” he asks. He’s having the same thoughts I did as soon as I saw what she was wearing. The girl can’t get on the back of a motorcycle wearing something so big. It’ll get caught in the wheels or something. I turn to the girl, scanning her from head to foot. She’s started to cry low, exhausted, barely there sobs that shake her whole body.
“What are you wearing under there?” I ask her.
She looks up at me, and bam. It hits me at possibly the most inopportune of moments: she’s fucking beautiful. Even when she’s crying, face covered in running mascara, she’s breathtaking. I can’t afford to be standing around like an idiot in the desert, checking her out, though. “Did you hear me? What are you wearing under that ridiculous fucking dress?’
“Nothing,” she whispers. Her lip trembles, making her look really young. In fact, how old is she? She looks like a kid. A kid in a bullshit dress, wearing nothing underneath.
“Carnie, give me your knife,” I say.
Carnie hands it over, slapping the well-honed blade into my palm, handle first. It’s a serrated, mean-looking thing—great for scaring the ever-loving shit out of people when they’re not behaving themselves. The young woman standing in front of me turns a ghostly pale white when she sees it.
“Please. Please don’t hurt me. I—”
I grab the hem of the long dress she’s wearing and I begin to hack at it. The girl stops talking. I work quickly, cutting the skirt of the dress so that it rests about mid-thigh, throwing handfuls of tulle and other lacy shit onto the ground. When I’m done, I straighten up and the girl’s arms are locked around her body, her eyes clenched tightly closed. Her legs are on show now, and they are mighty fucking fine.
“Which bike you wanna ride on?” I ask her, pointing to them. She looks at me like she doesn’t understand what I’m asking her. “You pick which bike, which means you pick which one of us you’re trusting to carry you.”
“What if I don’t trust either of you?” she asks carefully.
“Then I pick you up and put you on the back of my bike anyway,” I tell her. She lets go of herself long enough to wipe the tears out of her eyes. “That one, then. The bigger one.” She points to my bike. I grin so hard it feels like my face is gonna split apart.
“Good choice.” I’m aware of the fact that Julio hasn’t closed the gates after us; he’s still watching us from the entrance of his villa, bulky form silhouetted against the light spilling out from inside. I start the engine of my Ducati Monster, snapping my wrist as I gun it, warming up the cylinders. I climb on, turning my attention back to the leggy girl at my side. “Get on,” I yell over the roar of the Ducati.
She just stands there, shivering.
“I mean it. Get on this bike, or I’ll have to come get you.”
The girl shrinks in on herself, her shoulders rounding, pulling up to her ears. For a moment, I think I’m actually gonna have to do it. I think I’m gonna have to get off my bike and forcefully put her on it. I’m seconds from doing exactly that when she cautiously steps forward and throws her leg over my ride. I can feel her looking for something to hold onto, a handrail at the back like the street fighters have. She’s not going to find anything, though. I reach back until I find one of her arms, and then I pull it around me. “Now’s not the time to be shy, sweetheart. Hold onto me and you’ll be fine.”
I’m not stupid; I know the last thing she wants to do is wrap her arms around me and get all up close and personal, but we don’t have time for me to explain why holding on is a good idea. We really need to get the fuck out of here.
“You been on a motorcycle before?” I ask over my shoulder.
“No.” She answers very quietly, but I can still hear her over the roar of the engines.
“Then the smartest thing you can do right now is hold onto me and not let go until I tell you. Unless you want to die, of course?” Slowly, very carefully, her other arm snakes around my waist. “There’s a good girl.” I gun the engine again, jerking my head to Carnie. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before they change their minds and kill us after all.”
“Copy that.” Carnie takes the lead. He burns off into the desert, and the only thing I can see as I charge after him, an unknown woman clinging onto me for dear life, arms growing tighter and tighter as we go faster, is the red flicker of his taillight.
SOPHIA
I’m going to die.
The cool desert air whips through my hair as we burn the night, ruining the intricate style Ramona created so that I’d be pretty when my new owner came to collect me. My heart is in my throat. I press my cheek into the back of this stranger’s back, and I stare out into the abyssal darkness¸ not seeing anything. Not caring. Practicing at stilling the screaming panic in my head.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be happening.
This is happening.
This is happening, but it will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
Eventually, we come to a highway—god knows how these guys knew which direction to head in—though everything is still pitch black. No streetlights. No other cars. Nothing. I loosen my grip around the guy’s waist, not that I don’t feel like I might be tossed out of my seat any second. The seams in the blacktop make regular thrum, thrum, thrum noises as the motorcycle’s wheels travel over them. I think about jumping.
What are the chances of me seriously damaging myself if I throw myself off this bike? What are the chances of me dying? It’s almost as if the guy in front of me guesses what I’m thinking. The motorcycle speeds up, tearing up the open road, the engine roaring in my ears. No chance I can do it now. I’d be road-kill the second my body hits the ground.
I allow myself the luxury of a few tears as we travel on, on, on into the night. There seems to be no end to this journey. It feels like I’m going to be trapped here on the back of this motorcycle forever, forced to hold onto a man who paid a huge amount of money so he can do god knows what to me. So he can own me. That thought makes me feel sick. My head’s still spinning from where Raphael’s men hit me, which doesn’t help.
I can feel the last reserves of my energy draining from me, my body falling limp, as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. We pass a Winnebago at first light, the driver honking his horn at us in greeting. He obviously hasn’t seen another person on the road for a long time, either. As we pass the souped-up vehicle, I catch a glimpse of the guy behind the wheel—he’s grinning, wearing a bucket hat, the kind people only ever wear on vacation, and there’s a small kid in the front seat beside him. They both look so damned happy, flashing their middleclass smiles at us. I wonder if they can see the terror in my eyes as I whip by them in a blur.
Probably not.
The guy with the glasses on the other motorcycle revs his engine, and suddenly the front wheel is off the ground. He’s pulling a wheelie. I can hear him hollering as my guy pulls forward to catch up with him. Underneath my now very lax grip, I can feel his stomach muscles contracting as he…as he laughs. I hate him. It’s wrong that he should be laughing at the stupid, reckless behavior of his friend after he’s basically just kidnapped me. Tertiary kidnapping—that’s what it was. Raphael first, then that Julio guy, and now this one. I’ve been passed from pillar to post like lost property. The worst part of now being bought and paid for by this new guy is that he’s really good looking. There’s no way he would have a problem getting any girl he wanted, which makes me think scary things. Maybe normal women won’t let him do the things that he wants to do. Maybe his sexual proclivities run so dark that he can only act out his fantasies on people who have no choice in the matter. That could be part of it, too—the sense of power he’d feel as he took something precious from someone who didn’t want to give it.
An hour after we hit the highway, the guys pull into a diner at the side of the road—Harry’s Place. My body is aching from sitting on the back of the motorcycle for so long; my back, my butt, my shoulders, my legs—all of me is throbbing or complaining in one way or another. It hurts even more when the guy kills the engine and makes me get off, my limbs protesting at being straightened out after remaining in one position for so long. The guy swings off the motorcycle and kicks out the stand, letting the heavy machine rest.
I quickly look around, wondering if I should run. Now that it’s light and I can see where we are, that doesn’t seem like a good plan. Arid desert stretches on endlessly in every direction, the landscape without life or vegetation. Orange rocks and dirt forever.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” I snap my head around. The guy I rode with is standing in front of me, hands in his pockets, mouth pulling up at one side. It’s almost a smile, but not a friendly one. He looks amused. “People die out there without trying very hard. That’s why our good friend Julio built his compound out there. No chance anyone’s gonna stumble across him, if you catch my drift.”
I glare at him, wrapping my arms around my body. This dress is not the kind of thing I want to be wearing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, with the sun really starting to heat up. I have far too much skin on display, especially since half the skirt was hacked away by a really sharp knife.
The guy standing in front of me tips his head to one side. “We’ll find you something a little more appropriate to wear soon.”
He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and worn-out jeans, white sneakers on his feet. Tattoos cover every available inch of his skin from the shoulders down—colorful sleeves that I only allow my eyes to skim over before quickly looking away. I have no idea what a person like him would consider more appropriate attire for me, but I’m not looking forward to finding out. “Where are you taking me?” I demand.
The other guy, joining us, laughs. “Pissy, ain’t she?” He spits on the floor.
“Seems so.”
I want to get smart with them. I want to ask them if being witness to a murder, kidnapped, assaulted, violated, and sold would make them pissy, but I don’t know much about these people yet. They’ve yet to show me who they are. Whether they’re violent people. They look like violent people.
The one I rode with smirks at me. “I’m Rebel. This is Carnie. We’re taking you back to our clubhouse. If you have any further questions, you can direct them straight to Cade.”
“Who’s Cade?”
Rebel—obviously not the name his parents gave him when he was born—points a thumb over his shoulder. “Cade’s the guy sitting in that Humvee behind me. I believe you’ve already met.”
Sure enough, there is a black Humvee parked in the lot, twenty feet away from where we’re standing. I can’t see much through the dark tint on the windows. The car’s massive—looks like something that belongs in an army convoy, not sitting in a diner’s parking lot. The door opens and a broad guy in a black hoody jumps down from the driver’s side. I don’t recognize him at first, but as he gets closer I see more and more of his face. It’s the guy from the side alley, the one who gave Raphael the bullet. The one who told me to say I was a virgin.
His face is expressionless as he arrives next to Rebel. “Went off without a hitch?” he asks.
“Surprisingly. You got everything prepped?”
Cade nods. “The guys have been warned. We should arrive back early evening or so.”
Rebel nods. “Okay. Don’t let her out of your fucking sight, you hear?”
“You know it.” Cade steps closer to me, and that’s it; I’ve been transferred over to yet another person. Rebel climbs back on his motorcycle and he doesn’t look back. He and Carnie burn off into the early morning without even acknowledging me again. I stare after them, wondering what the hell is going to happen next.
Cade takes hold of me by the arm, pulling me in the direction of the Humvee. Eyes fixed straight ahead, he doesn’t look at me as he opens the passenger door of the monstrous vehicle and waits for me to climb inside. I shuffle backward instead.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Cade,” he replies.
“I’m not asking what your name is. I’m asking who are you? Are you guys some sort of sex ring or something? Do you trade in people that are stolen off the streets? Are you going to use me up and then kill me?” I feel a little braver around this guy, so the questions flow one after the other. I probably shouldn’t feel brave around him, but he did tell me to lie to Raphael and Hector. Part of me wants to believe that’s because he was trying to save me from whatever horrors Raphael had planned for me. Equally, it could mean that he simply wanted his boss to have me instead of his enemy.
“We’re not gonna kill you,” Cade tells me, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes. “And we don’t deal in girls, either.”
“Then why won’t you just let me go? You could just send me back to my family. I swear I won’t breathe a word about what I saw.”
Cade places his hand on my back and pushes me toward the car. “’Fraid we can’t do that. Rebel needs you.”
“He needs me? What for?” I have no choice but to climb up into the Humvee as Cade moves to my left and urges me forward.
“Not my place to tell you, kiddo. Just keep your head straight. Don’t freak out on me and everything will be fine. Rebel will get what he needs, you can go back to Seattle and everyone’s happy.” He slams the door closed and walks around the car, but he doesn’t get in. He locks the doors and heads inside the diner, instead.
As soon as he’s vanished inside the building, I get to work. There has to be something in here I can use as a weapon. Something I can use to get free. A cell phone to call my dad. I check the glove compartment, on the backseat, underneath the front seats as best as I can, contorting my body into awkward positions in order to get my head down into the foot wells, but there’s nothing. Not one scrap of paper. Not one piece of trash. Not even an owner’s manual. The interior of the car is spotless.
I don’t realize Cade has returned until I hear the driver’s side door opening. I’m on my front, looking under his seat at the time, which is where he finds me. He has a brown paper bag in his hand and a bemused expression on his face. “This isn’t our first time at the rodeo, kid,” he tells me. “Where are you planning on going, anyway? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
I push myself upright, slumping back into my seat. “I don’t suppose it’d matter where I go, asshole. All I’d need to do is find a payphone. I’d call the police and have them come arrest all of you, starting with that psycho Raphael and his weird boss.”
Cade nods, passing me the brown paper bag. He gets in, starting the engine. “Raphael is definitely a psycho. Hector, too, when you get to know him.”
The smell of melted cheese hits me, and I realize what I’m holding. Food. Actual, real food. I haven’t eaten anything since back at Hector’s ranch. I glance over at Cade, trying to suss him out.
“Is…this for me?”
“Before you start complaining, they didn’t have any salads. If you don’t want it, I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”
I close my hands around the paper bag, holding onto it tightly. “I do want it.” It’s annoying that he thinks just because I’m a woman, I’m allergic to carbs and a little grease. I manage to hold my tongue, though. If he wants to pretend like he knows who I am, based on the fact that I have tits and a vagina, then let him. That’s his loss. Cade pulls out onto the highway, and I tear into the paper bag, finding a simple grilled cheese and a chocolate muffin inside. Neither of us speaks. He drives. I eat.
I’ve never enjoyed a grilled cheese sandwich as much in my entire life. The heaviness of it sits in the pit of my stomach, solid and weighty, which is reassuring. If I have to go without food again for a little while, I’ll manage. I don’t know when but I’ve decided that I’m going to make a break for it as soon as I can. At some point on our journey from here to our destination, we’ll have to stop, and he will take his eyes off me, even if it’s for a second. A second is all I’m going to need. I’ll be away before he even realizes what’s happened. Better start making plans.
“Where’s the clubhouse, Cade?” I emphasize his name, testing it out. I don’t know anyone called Cade—I don’t think I’ve ever had to say it before. He huffs out a laugh, changing gear.
“New Mexico. Should take us about thirteen hours to get there if you don’t talk the whole way.”
New Mexico? My body sinks back into the seat, heavy as a lead weight. That’s way further than I anticipated. I thought maybe we’d be traveling for a couple of hours and then we’d arrive, but no. We’re headed across three states. That’s a good thing and a bad thing. If we were only going to be trapped inside this monstrosity for a little while, that’s less opportunity for me to run. But now, the further Cade drives me away from Washington is further that I have to make it back home without them coming after and finding me.
You don’t need to make it home, I remind myself. It’s like I just told Cade. I’d only need to make it to a police station. Or anywhere I could report what’s happened. Then I’d be safe. A surge of adrenalin fires through my veins, electricity around a circuit board, powering me up. I need to be ready, and for that I need energy. I start on the chocolate muffin but then give up halfway through, the food making me feel queasy.
“You mind if I put the radio on?” Cade asks.
I frown, looking at him properly for the first time since we got in the car. “You’re asking me? I’m your captive. I’m pretty sure you can do whatever the hell you like and I wouldn’t have a say in it.” It’s strange that he would even give me the option.
Cade grunts, dark eyes on the road. “You’re not a captive. That’s not what this is.”
“If I’m not a captive, then let me go.” I already know he won’t, though. If they were going to help me or do me any favors, they would have done so as soon as we cleared Julio’s den out in the desert.
“I already told you. Rebel needs you for something. Once that’s done, you can go.”
