“Are we going on a trip, Mommy?” Kloe asked, sitting on the edge of the sagging mattress, watching her mother’s frantic movements with a mixture of excitement and confusion. “Yes, baby.” A surprise trip, Abigail lied, her voice shaking. Tears streamed down her face. Though she fought desperately to keep her sobs quiet, she had received the text message 10 minutes ago. It was from Darren Croft.
Times up, Abby. I’m coming to collect. If you don’t have my five grand, I’m taking it out in trade. See you in five. Abigail knew what in trade meant. She felt violently ill. She zipped the duffel bag shut, her knuckles white. She just needed to get to her ancient Honda Civic if she could just get on the highway. Maybe they could make it to her sister’s house in New Mexico.
“Grab your backpack, Chloe. We have to go right now,” Abigail said, grabbing her keys. Before she could reach the door knob, a heavy fist pounded against the cheap wood, shaking the entire frame. Abigail froze, her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Open up, Abby. A slick, menacing voice called from the other side. I know you’re in there.
I can hear you breathing. Mommy, Khloe whispered, shrinking back onto the bed. Go to the bathroom, Chloe. Lock the door. Do not come out until I tell you, Abigail ordered, pushing her daughter toward the small, dingy bathroom in the back. Chloe, sensing her mother’s sheer terror, obeyed without a word, the lock clicking shut.
The door bowed inward as a heavy shoulder slammed against it. The deadbolt splintered the door frame and with a loud crack, the door swung open. Darren Croft stepped into the room. He was a wiry man in a cheap suit, his sllicked back hair wreaking of strong cologne. Behind him stood two massive, thick-necked thugs acting as his muscle.
Croft smiled, a predatory gleam in his dark eyes. “Going somewhere, Abby?” Croft asked, stepping over the threshold and kicking the broken door shut behind him without saying goodbye. Darren, please, Abigail begged, backing away until she hit the wall. I don’t have the money. I tried. I’ll get it.
I swear I just need another week. A week? Croft laughed. A harsh grading sound. He stepped closer, reaching out to grab a fistful of her hair. Abigail gasped in pain as he yanked her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes. You’re out of weeks, sweetheart. Your deadbeat husband borrowed my money, and now it’s your problem since you can’t pay with cash.
He ran a sleazy hand down her cheek. You’re going to pay me another way. Boys, secure the room. No, please. My daughter is in there. Abigail screamed, struggling against his grip. Croft’s eyes darkened. Even better. Keep you motivated to do exactly what I say. He raised his hand to backhand her across the face.
Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but the blow never came. Instead, the motel room was suddenly filled with a low, thunderous vibration. It felt as though an earthquake was hitting the building. The cheap window panes rattled in their frames. Croft paused, his hand still raised, looking toward the window. Outside, a convoy of black Harley-Davidsons roared into the narrow motel courtyard, effectively blocking Croft’s SUV.
The engines cut off in unison, leaving a heavy ringing silence in their wake. Heavy steeltoed boots crunched on the gravel outside. The broken door to room 114 was kicked completely off its hinges, sending it crashing onto the cheap carpet. Jon filled the doorway. He looked like an avatar of death, his massive frame blocking out the afternoon sun.
Behind him, Wrench and four other Hell’s Angels stood like silent sentinels, their faces carved from stone. Croft dropped his hand from Abigail’s hair, taking a rapid step back. His arrogance vanished instantly, replaced by a pale, sweating fear. He recognized the cuts. Everyone in Odessa knew who Jon was. Gallagher.
Croft stammered, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Look, man, this is a private business matter. I don’t have any beef with the club. Jon stepped into the room. He didn’t look at Croft. He didn’t look at the two thugs who were already backing themselves into a corner, wanting absolutely nothing to do with the heavily armed bikers.
Jon’s eyes found Abigail, who was sobbing against the wall, trembling uncontrollably. “You Abigail?” Jon asked, his voice a low, grally rumble. Abigail nodded frantically, too terrified to speak. Jon turned his head slowly toward Croft. You’re Darren Croft. Yeah, but like I said, Jon, this is between me and the widow here.
She owes me. Jon moved with a speed that defied his massive size. Before Croft could finish his sentence, Jon’s hand shot out, grabbing Croft by the throat. With a sickening display of raw power, Jon lifted the lone shark completely off the floor. Croft choked, his legs kicking wildly in the air, his face turning a dark shade of crimson.
His two thugs made a brief half-hearted motion to intervene, but Wrench pulled a heavy, snub-nosed revolver from his vest, pointing it lazily at them. The thugs froze, raising their hands. “You like terrorizing women, Croft?” Jon whispered. his face inches from the choking lone shark. You like breaking into rooms where little girls are hiding? No, please.
Croft wheezed, clawing helplessly at Jon’s immovable arm. How much does she owe you? Jon demanded. Five. Five grand. Jon tossed Croft aside like a rag doll. The lone shark crashed into the dresser, splintering the cheap wood and collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. John reached into his leather vest. He didn’t pull out a gun or a knife.
He pulled out a thick wad of cash held together by a rubber band. He peeled off $50 bills and threw them onto Croft’s chest. “There’s your five grand,” Jon said, his voice deadly quiet. “Her debt is paid. If you ever look at her again, if you ever breathe the same air as her or her daughter, I won’t just kill you, Croft.
I will take my time doing it. Do you understand me? Croft, clutching his bruised throat, nodded frantically, grabbing the cash and scrambling backward like a crab. I understand. We’re done. We’re done. Get out. Wrench barked at the thugs. The three men scrambled over the broken door and fled toward their SUV, peeling out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust.
The silence returned to the motel room, broken only by Abigail’s ragged breathing. She stared at the giant biker, completely bewildered. Why had this terrifying man just paid off her crippling debt? Jon turned to her. His hardened expression softened just a fraction. “You can come out now, little one,” he called out toward the bathroom door. The lock clicked.
The bathroom door creaked open and Khloe peaked out. Her eyes widened when she saw Jon. It’s the poor man,” Khloe exclaimed, running out and ignoring her mother’s gasp of warning. She stopped right in front of Jon, looking up at him fearlessly. “Did you buy a new jacket with my dollar?” Jon knelt down.
The giant, terrifying enforcer of the Hell’s Angels dropped to one knee on the filthy motel carpet so he could be eye level with the 7-year-old girl. He reached into his breast pocket and gently pulled out the carefully folded $1 bill and the torn napkin with the purple crayon writing. No, Chloe, John said, his voice cracking slightly, tears welling up in his steel gray eyes.
I didn’t buy a new jacket, but you gave me something much more valuable. You reminded me that I have a heart left to beat. The ride to the Hell’s Angels compound was a blur of deafening exhaust pipes and whipping desert wind. Abigail sat in the passenger seat of Wrench’s beat up armored Chevy Tahoe, clutching Khloe tightly in her lap while Jon and the rest of the pack formed a protective diamond formation around the vehicle.
Abigail’s mind was spinning out of control. Less than an hour ago, she had been moments away from becoming the property of a sadistic lone shark. Now she was under the armed escort of the most notorious motorcycle club in Texas. She looked out the window at Jon, who was riding point, his massive frame absorbed the vibrations of his Harley, his leather cut flapping violently in the wind.
The dollar bill Khloe had taped to his seat was now tucked safely against his chest. Am I trading one monster for a dozen others? Abigail thought, a cold sweat breaking out on her neck. They turned off the main highway onto a fractured asphalt road that wounded deep into the industrial outskirts of Odessa. The compound loomed ahead, a sprawling fortress-like salvage yard surrounded by 12t high corrugated steel walls topped with razor wire.
Two heavy iron gates swung open as they approached, operated by a prospect holding a pump-action shotgun as the Tahoe rolled into the yard. Abigail’s breath hitched. Dozens of heavily tattooed men stopped what they were doing to stare. Choppers were being rebuilt in open air garages. Heavy metal music blared from a set of blown out speakers, and the air smelled sharply of gasoline, stale beer, and exhaust.
“Mommy, is this a castle?” Chloe whispered, her eyes wide with unadulterated awe. “It’s It’s a kind of castle, sweet bug,” Abigail replied, her voice trembling. Wrench parked the Tahoe and opened her door. He was a lanky man with a grease smudged face and a spiderweb tattoo creeping up his neck, but his eyes were surprisingly gentle as he offered Abigail his hand.
“Come on, ma’am. Boss wants you inside. You’re safe here. Nobody breaches the wire.” Jon was already off his bike, waiting for them by the heavy steel doors of the main clubhouse. He gestured for them to follow him inside. The interior was dimly lit, wreaking of leather and old cigarette smoke.
A massive mahogany bar spanned the back wall, but Jon led them past the common area, down a narrow cinder block hallway, and into a surprisingly clean, private back room. It had a sturdy deadbolt, a modest bed, a television, and a small suite bathroom. “It ain’t the Ritz,” John said, his deep voice filling the small space.
“But the sheets are clean, and there’s a lock on the door. You and the little one can stay here until we figure this out. Figure what out? Abigail asked, wrapping her arms around herself defensively. You paid Croft. You saved us. I I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you, Mr. Gallagher. But we can just leave town. We can go to New Mexico.
Jon crossed his massive arms. The jagged scar on his face caught the dim light. Croft is a bottom feeder. He doesn’t operate in a vacuum. He buys bad paper, sure, but he doesn’t usually hunt down widows for five grand unless someone pays him to make a point. You said your husband owed him.
Abigail shook her head frantically. David was a good man. He was a safety inspector at the Apex petrochemical refinery. He never gambled. He never drank. He was completely straightlaced. A month after he died in the accident, Croft showed up at my door with a ledger showing David borrowed $5,000. The life insurance company refused to pay out, claiming David’s death was a result of his own gross negligence.
I was completely broke. Croft started adding interest and then the threat started. Jon’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He looked over at Chloe, who had already found a battered old deck of cards on the nightstand and was trying to build a shaky tower on the floor. “Wrench” John called out over his shoulder. Wrench instantly appeared in the doorway.
Run a background on Apex Prochemical. Specifically, I want to know who denied David Montgomery’s life insurance claim. And I want to know if there’s a paper trail connecting Apex to Darren Croft. You think the refinery put a hit on a safety inspector, boss? Wrench asked, his brow furrowing. I think, Jon growled, his voice dropping an octave.
That coincidence is a fairy tale for fools. And I don’t believe in fairy tales. Jon looked back at Abigail. You rest, eat. I’ll have one of the prospects bring you some hot food tomorrow. We get to the bottom of this. As Jon turned to leave, a tiny hand grabbed his thick leather belt. He froze.
Khloe was looking up at him, holding out a single playing card, the King of Hearts. “Thank you for saving us, John,” she chirped. Jon stared at the little girl, the ghost of his own daughter flashing behind his eyes. He gently took the card from her tiny fingers. “You’re welcome, little bird. Nobody is going to hurt you. I promise.” For the next 48 hours, the terrifying Hell’s Angels compound transformed into something completely surreal.
Abigail watched in stunned disbelief as hardened criminals. Men who had spent time in federal penitentiies went out of their way to avoid cursing near her daughter. A massive, heavily bearded enforcer named Gunnar, spent two hours letting Khloe braid his long hair, while Deacon, the club’s armorer, somehow managed to find a pink coloring book and a brand new set of crayons, presenting them to Kloe with an awkward toothy grin.
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