by Kate Kessler
“One of two places,” said Arlo. He was older and looked a bit like a piece of tanned leather with gray hair on top. People used to think his wiry build meant he was fragile, but Killian remembered him being fast as a snake and just as merciless. “They still got that club in Hartford—The Kitten Hole. That’s where they take some of the girls to break them in. Others go right to Annie’s.”
Annie’s. The name sent a shiver down Killian’s spine. That was the brothel that catered to most of the MCs in the state. It was a bleak, rough place that stank of desperation and defeat. If Wex had taken Shannon there…
“She’s probably at the club,” added Jackie, Arlo’s old lady. Her henna-red hair and cigarette-roughened voice hadn’t changed over the years. She looked a little older, a little tougher, but that was it. Still wore too much black eyeliner and dark red lipstick. Still had a chest like the prow of an old ship. “She’s a pretty girl, right? They always take the really pretty ones to the club. Plus, they always have more muscle there. If the cops show up it’s a lot easier to get away with underage at a strip club than a whorehouse.”
Blunt, but true.
“That’s if they plan to turn her out,” Dash commented, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “My bet is they’re going to use her for bait.”
Killian met his gaze. “If you were Wex, what would you do?”
He didn’t look away—he never did. “Turn her out, but what if Rank’s calling the shots?”
“He’d want her for himself.” The idea of Rank touching Shannon…She sucked in a breath to calm her rolling stomach.
Dash turned to Danny. “If the Crows show up at the club, it’s going to be mayhem. The SOBs and their allies will be all over you.”
“I’ll take that risk,” Danny informed him. Killian squeezed his hand. Dash was right, though. She didn’t want to get anyone killed. Well, not anyone who didn’t deserve it. Killing had never been her thing, but she could kill Wex at that moment. Rank too. And anyone else who touched Shannon, or even looked at her. She’d kill the whole fucking SOB club if she had to.
Jason used to say that the easiest way to justify killing someone was to tell yourself they deserved it. It made facing the consequences more palatable, too.
Had killing Jason been worth the consequences for Rank? She really fucking hoped not. She hoped he regretted it every time he looked in the damn mirror.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Dash swiped his finger up the screen. “I can send someone with Killy who won’t draw their attention while you guys go to the brothel. No one will think anything of you looking for a new recruit.”
Killian met his gaze. “Who do you have in mind?”
“An associate,” he replied.
Danny frowned at him, offended. “You want to take this outside the club?”
Dash didn’t flinch from the fierce gaze. “I want to do whatever stands the best chance of saving the girl and keeping all of you alive. It’s not worth bleeding for if the girl’s not there.”
“He’s right,” Killian agreed. “They’re going to expect me to show up with you guys. It will throw them off if they think I’m alone. If you go to the brothel, there’s a better chance I can get Shannon home tonight.”
“If that’s what you want,” Danny told her, “that’s what we’ll do. What else do you need?”
“Guns,” she replied. “And knives.”
“Tell Jackie what you need. She and Arlo will go get it.”
Killian made a list and gave it to the older woman. She wasn’t much of a gun person. They seemed a cheap way of hurting someone without really putting any physical effort into it. You could get fast and loose with violence without regard to the outcome. Hand-to-hand was her preference. Looking your opponent in the eye ensured that you both knew only one of you could win, and let you see how badly each wanted the victory. More times than she could count, the look in someone’s eye had let her know exactly how much danger she was in, and she always made certain they could see her intent in her own gaze. A fight was the only time most people were truly honest with each other—and themselves.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dash talk to someone on his phone, then hang up. What was he into that he had “associates”? And could she trust them? It was too late to ask now. If Dash trusted them, that would have to be good enough. She was on the edge of desperation, and every second Shannon was gone was another second something terrible could be happening to her. The SOBs weren’t known for treating women with any kind of respect, not even the ones who ran with them. Even if they’d been told not to harm Shannon—and she had no guarantee that they had—one of them would eventually snap, and then others would follow.
Shannon was not going to suffer for Killian’s mistake.
And she was not going to think about things that might or might not happen. That was just asking to go insane. She had to focus on getting the kid back, getting her home. What she was going to do to each and every person responsible. Those were the things she could control.
She walked over to Dash as he shoved his phone in his pocket. “Is your associate in?”
He tilted his head at her slight emphasis on the word. “She is. She’ll be here within the hour.”
“She?”
He smirked a little. “What? Did you think you were the only badass woman in town?”
Killian arched a brow. “I guess times have changed.”
“A little. Come on, I’ve got some stuff you might want.” He signaled to Danny that they’d be right back, then led her down the corridor to the back of the house.
“I don’t think I want anything you keep in your bedroom,” she drawled from the threshold. It was a nice bedroom, though—definitely better than hers. He had a king-size bed covered in steely gray sheets that looked velvety soft. The floor was smooth slate, and the walls were a lighter shade. The furniture was dark wood. It should all be too much, but it wasn’t the least bit depressing. It felt…serene. He even had an en suite bath. She’d always wanted one of those.
He shot her a droll look. “You wish. Get in here, and shut the door.”
Again her eyebrow lifted, but she did as he bid. Dash wasn’t any danger to her. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
He stood in front of a large armoire on the other side of the room. When he opened it, Killian saw that it was full of clothing—shirts, pants, and jackets, hanging neatly. Dash pushed them to the side and flipped up a concealed panel on the back wall to reveal a punch pad. She couldn’t see the numbers he pressed, and it made no sound, but a second later the back of the armoire slid open.
“You have a fucking secret room?” She gaped at him.
He grinned. “Yeah. I do.” And then he stepped inside. She followed.
She looked around the room with her mouth agape. Jesus. “What are you, James Bond or something?”
He laughed. “No. More like Q.”
Killian glanced at him. Was he serious? He’d always been good at teasing her, making her feel naive and foolish. He was just a good liar. She had no idea what to believe, but that she knew of, he’d never lied to her about anything serious. Then again, he wouldn’t be so good at it if she had knowledge of any deceit.
It wasn’t a large room—about the size of a walk-in closet. It contained neatly stored weapons, ammunition, various protective containers, a safe, and personal items. She froze when she saw a familiar chest on one of the lower shelves—battered and beaten, covered in MMA and band stickers.
“That’s mine,” she said.
“I saved it for you.” He pulled it out onto the floor and stepped back. “You might want some of what’s in it.”
Of course she did. Her hand shook when she opened the lid. There was her shoebox of memories of Jason, her old phone, and her hand wraps. There were the medals she’d won fighting, a small stuffed pig, and one of Jason’s old T-shirts. Her jacket was in there, too—the one she’d been wearing that night. Someone had cleaned it. No need to wonder who. There was her
old knife in the sheath she could strap around her ankle. She grabbed it, along with both sets of brass knuckles—and left the jacket. “Thank you,” she said.
“You might also want this.”
He held a black vest in his hand—one of the ultralight, thin pieces of body armor she’d only ever seen in movies. It looked like it would fit her pretty well. “Where did you get that?”
“I’m always prepared.”
Killian took the vest. Damn, it was light. She looked him in the eye. “Dash, seriously, what the fuck are you into?”
“Something good,” he replied, holding her gaze. “Trust me.”
The crazy thing was, she did trust him. Trusted him completely, liar or not. “Can I come back for the chest?”
He nodded. “Not like it takes up much room. Make sure you put that on before you head out.”
“I’m not stupid.”
One corner of his mouth quirked. “You sure about that?”
Killian laughed. It felt good, but it quickly turned into a sob. Dash caught her by the shoulders. The bite of his fingers brought her back. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out. Damn it, she couldn’t afford to freak out. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. She was still a little shaky, but under control. “I got it. Thanks.”
He let her go. He never pushed her, just always seemed to know exactly what she needed. “Come on,” he said. “Enough of this shit. You want to bring that kid home, we need a plan.”
Killian followed him out into the bedroom, clutching the vest to her chest. Her fear faded to resolute calm—the kind of feeling she used to summon before a fight. She knew she could win. She just had to be smart, fast, and better than her opponent. Yeah, a plan. That’s what she needed. And some bikers. And some guns. Lots of guns.
And maybe—probably—a fucking miracle.
Six years ago
Five-on-one was not what anyone would consider a fair fight. These bitches knew what they were doing, too. They weren’t in on charges of poisoning their husbands or drug trafficking; they’d lived violent lives and were greedy for the reward offered to them for taking Killian out. That kind of money could change the lives of the few people they cared about, never mind what happened to them.
Killian’s left eye was already swelling shut. Blood ran from a gash in her forehead. Everything hurt, but she was still standing—until one of them took her to the dirt. She’d known the moment one of them started messing with the guards, causing a distraction, that she was in trouble. Or that someone was. Next thing she knew, they were on her.
She squirmed and jumped like a cornered snake. The woman trying to pin her was heavier than her, and had a shiv—an old dirty thing that would kill her with sepsis if the initial wound didn’t do the trick.
“Get her fucking hands!” the woman shouted after Killian punched her in the mouth.
Two of them jumped in—one pinning her arms while the other sat on her shins. The first one straddled her midriff. She was pinned like a bug to a board. This was it. Rank was going to win. Killian didn’t want to die, but fuck…the peace and quiet might be nice.
“That’s it,” the inmate said, pressing the shiv into Killian’s side. “Just lie back and take it, bitch. It’ll all be over soon.”
Killian arched her back, her body refusing to give up just yet, but the woman didn’t budge. Killian’s legs were held tight and so were her arms. She looked her assassin in the eye and said nothing. There was nothing to say.
The thick hand holding the shiv drew back. The arm it was attached to tensed, poised to thrust the weapon with all its strength.
And then the sole of a large sneaker connected with the side of the woman’s head with a rich thwack, sending her toppling to the side. The other women shouted. The one holding her legs loosened her hold.
Killian moved fast, reeling back her legs and then jackknifing them into the inmate’s chest. She fell backward. Killian rolled up onto her shoulder blades and wrapped her calves around the third woman’s neck. She squeezed as hard as she could while she squirmed her body around into a better position. Above her women traded punches and kicks, grunted and bled and swore.
The woman caught in her grapple started to black out. Killian squeezed harder, gritting her teeth. “Just lie back and take it,” she mocked.
Suddenly she was grabbed from behind by a guard. “It’s about fucking time,” she growled at them.
“They don’t pay me enough to deal with you, Delaney,” the guard replied. “Let her go.”
Killian did as she was told. If she’d learned one thing, it was not to antagonize the guards. To be fair, they’d been good to her the past year, ever since one of their own had tried to claim Rank’s blood money. She wasn’t above using their collective shame to her advantage.
They were all dragged away to the infirmary, kept as far apart as they could be in the small space. Two of them were released immediately, as their injuries were nothing serious. Sitting on the exam table, Killian got to take a good look at the woman who had come to her aid.
She was tall, probably close to six feet, with flawless black skin, dark eyes, and a glossy halo of natural curls.
“You’ve got big feet,” Killian commented.
She nodded with a small smile. She had blood around her nose, and her knuckles were torn up. “Size elevens, baby.” Her voice was low and rough.
“What’s your name?”
“Raven.”
Killian’s brows shot up. “For real?”
The other woman laughed, then winced. She touched a finger to her lip and checked it for blood. “For real.”
“I’m Killian.”
“I know who you are.”
“I suppose I should thank you for not being able to mind your own fucking business.” She hated owing anybody. There always came a time when they wanted to collect.
Raven shrugged. “Never could keep my ass out of an unfair fight. You wanna thank me for that, you go right ahead, but there’s no need.”
Killian stared at her. Raven stared back. There was nothing duplicitous in her gaze, nothing that told Killian not to trust her, but she’d been fooled before.
“Well, thank you.”
All she got in response was a nod, then the nurse was there and neither one of them spoke again. Raven was finished before Killian, who was checked for a concussion and had the cut on her head cleaned and sutured.
“You got lucky again,” the nurse told her.
Killian could only see out of her right eye now. “You think it’s just luck?”
The nurse gave her a look, but it said more than words ever could. Killian chuckled.
“You laugh, but one of these days, Delaney—”
“Yeah,” Killian cut in. “I know. Am I good to go?”
“I’ll have the guard take you back to your cell.”
For the last five weeks, Killian had the cell to herself. Her last cellmate had gotten ahold of some bad heroin and died in the shower. People had started calling Killian the Angel of Death because being near her seemed to be a death wish. She had no friends. On the upside, no one bugged her unless they were looking for Rank’s money. Friends were overrated anyway.
The cell door opened. Killian stepped inside and stopped. “What the fuck?” she demanded.
Raven smiled up at her from the bottom bunk. “Hey, roomie.”
Dash’s “associate” was punctual.
She didn’t arrive until the Crows had left to prepare for the brothel run, so it was just Dash and Killian in the house. Killian had put the armor on beneath her sweater and strapped the knife to her ankle. Funny how both made her feel more comfortable, not less. When Dash handed her a sandwich, she took it gratefully and swallowed half of it. She hadn’t even realized she was hungry. Someone knocked on the door as she remembered to chew.
The least interesting woman Killian had ever seen walked into the house. She was about five-six with medium-brown hair and eyes that could
be blue, green, or hazel. Her complexion was right in the middle of the spectrum, neither white nor brown. Her clothes—dark pants, dress shirt, and blazer—concealed her figure. She was completely average—not a distinguishing feature to be seen.
Killian wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She’d never seen anyone so fucking perfect for a life of crime.
The woman offered her hand. “Hello. I’m Story.”
Her name was the only thing extraordinary about her—other than her ability to appear perfectly average. With the right makeup she could be gorgeous, or equally hideous. Killian accepted the handshake, all too aware that she had peanut butter on her knuckles. “Killian.”
“Dash tells me you’re old friends.”
Killian shot him a glance. “Practically ancient.” Then to the other woman: “How long have you known him?”
“Long enough to know he wouldn’t call me unless he needed to.” She smiled as she spoke, softening the fact that she hadn’t really given an answer. She didn’t have any sort of accent, either.
“Story’s a driver,” Dash offered. “The best.”
The woman arched a brow at the compliment. “Thanks, hon.”
“Why do I need a driver?” Killian demanded. “I can drive myself.”
“Not that kind of driver,” he expounded. “Story’s something more.”
Killian took a closer look at the woman. Was she wearing a vest, too? That could be the bulge of a gun beneath her jacket. She definitely had a weapon on her right ankle—maybe her left as well.
“You work for the same setup as Dash?” she asked.
“We have mutual professional contacts,” Story replied.
“I make sure her cars do what she wants them to do.” Dash took a drink of his own smoothie.
The woman turned her head toward him. “Why don’t you tell me where I’m going tonight so I know which car to use?”
“We’re going to The Kitten Hole to look for a missing girl,” Killian told her.
“If we find her?”
“I plan to take the place apart.”
“And if we don’t?”
