Savages Boxed Set

by Gadziala, Jessica

  This is where the gut feeling finally did kick in.

  Sure, they could have been anyone's keys.

  There were dozens of cars in the lot, any one of the owners could have carelessly dropped their keys on their way into the gym, shuffling to get their shit into their gym bags or whatever.

  But that wasn't the feeling I was getting.

  The feeling I was getting was that they were Elsie's and that something was wrong.

  When I got to them, snatched them up, and saw the dozen or so keys she kept on a chain along with the Porsche key fob and the red Stanford "S" Roman had given her as a key chain, the stomach clenching came back, intensifying to the point of a sharp pain.

  I turned and ran toward the gym, barely in the door before I started barking at the girl at the front desk. "I need your camera feed for the parking lot. Now," I growled when all she did was look at me with drawn-together brows. "Fucking now, babe. I don't have time to..."

  "Paine, what the fuck?" Shane Mallick's voice called, walking up, shirt wet with sweat like he had overheard the yelling while doing a workout.

  "I think Elsie was taken from your parking lot. I need your camera feed. Now."

  "Taken?" he repeated, needing clarification.

  "Third Street," I said through clenched teeth and his face fell as he turned toward the computers behind the desk, shouldering the girl gently out of the way and clicking through a few screens before finding the feed. I moved behind the desk uninvited and stood to his side, watching as he used a little ball to rewind the footage. People came and went. A couple made out against their car. A guy picked a wedgie. A girl wobbled on her heels, looking around frantically to make sure no one saw her.

  Then there it was.

  I wasn't sure it was her at first, just a blur of motion as a person disappeared inside a trunk, but as Shane slowed the feed and it kept moving backward, Elsie's limp body came back out of the trunk, came to life, then she wasn't being held in a successful rear naked choke, she was being pulled across the lot, flailing, gagged.

  By. Fucking. D.

  "Lost her," Shane said when they went out of camera range. "Hold up," he said, switching to a different camera and rewinding. Then there they were again. She hadn't been paying attention and she ran right into him.

  Fuck.

  "Shit," Shane cursed, standing, reaching for a phone.

  "Cops?"

  "They can put out a call to look for her. But they won't find her," I said, clenching my hands up. "Call Sawyer."

  "Sawyer Anderson?"

  "Yeah. He was working a case for her. Call him, tell him what happened. Get him on it," I said as I moved out from behind the desk and went toward the door.

  "Where you going?" Shane called.

  "Family fucking reunion," I growled, swinging open the door and running across the lot toward my still-open and still-running car. I threw myself inside and put it into drive, simultaneously peeling out of the lot and reaching into the glove for my gun.

  Seemed like the only time I ever saw my brother anymore was when I had a gun on him.

  Enzo generally occupied the old apartment I used to when I ran things. But he also had an apartment on the very outskirts of the slums, still technically on the streets he ran, but safer and more expensive. It was like a part of Enzo was constantly at conflict between his old life before and the one he chose to live in after, like he couldn't give up the money and power of running the streets, but also didn't really want to be associated with that 'low life' behavior his mother raised him to detest.

  As I parked on the street, slipping the gun into my waistband and pulling down my shirt to cover it, I wondered if that was something he struggled with- what Annie would think of the man he'd become.

  Knowing Enzo, it fucking haunted him.

  I pushed those thoughts and the tug of connection away as I moved in the front doors of the red brick building that had a super that actually cared enough to keep things relatively up-kept though there was no automatic lock on the front door. I went inside and took the elevator up to the top floor and moved toward the far end of the hall near the exit staircase.

  Enzo wasn't the door locking kind of guy so I reached for the knob while taking my gun back out.

  The inside of his place was neat, orderly, almost obsessively so. Maybe like a part of him rebelled against the filthiness of his lifestyle and overcompensated with chronic housekeeping. All his furniture was sleek and modern, a style that made my lip curl. I liked a home to look like a home, like a place you could sink into and feel comfortable. I figured it was just another way to make his place look all the more orderly.

  The living and kitchen space was empty and I moved down the hall toward the master bedroom. The bed was made, tucked down in full-on military fashion. Just when I was turning in the direction of the bathroom door, it opened.

  Enzo froze, back illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light in the small tile room. But as he took a step out and his face wasn't in shadow, I felt my raised gun fall a few inches.

  This was because Enzo, just as big and built and unbreakable-looking as me, had been worked over. Meaning his face was busted: lip swollen and broken open, one eye swollen almost shut, the other bruised with small steri-strips holding a large gash closed. And if the way he was leaning toward his side and bulkiness under his shirt was any indication, he'd bruised or busted a rib or two as well.

  "The fuck?" I heard myself ask, not sure I'd ever seen anyone get the drop on him, let alone keep him down long enough to do that kind of damage. It looked like he'd been jumped. It looked like...

  "Yeah," Enzo said, nodding slightly like he knew what I had been thinking.

  "You got a beat-out?" I asked, brows drawing together. First, because as long as I had been affiliated with the gang, the only way out was death or disappearance. Second, because shot-callers simply didn't get beat-out. That wasn't how it worked.

  "What the fuck are you doing here with a gun on me again?" he asked, moving into the room and lowering himself down onto the foot of the bed, wincing hard as the movement, I imagined, sent a stabbing through his ribcage.

  "Elsie," I growled, lowering the gun, but keeping it at my side. Looking like he looked, moving like he moved, I seriously doubted he could get across the room toward me before I could get the gun raised again if need be.

  "Elsie?" he repeated, shaking his head like the name didn't ring a bell.

  "My. Fucking. Woman," I seethed, not having the time or patience for the runaround.

  To that, Enzo's battered face twisted up into what would be considered a smirk. "Woman? You got a woman? As in... one you do more than just fuck? You?"

  "Don't have time for this, Enz," I said, shaking my head. "About a week and a half ago, she was being chased down the street by D and Trick. About an hour ago, she was leaving the gym and ran into D again. He choked her out and threw her in his trunk. Now I need to know what the fuck is going on. You got beat-out, that sucks for you. But that shit is fresh so you were still in control of things nine days ago when they pulled the chasing stunt. So I want to know what the fuck is going on."

  Enzo held a hand out, shaking his head. "Didn't know shit about that. You can come in here, testosterone stinking up the joint, but that don't change the fact that my men have been working with someone else under my nose for a long while now, slowly stealing their loyalty and my power."

  "Then why the fuck are you beat-out and not lying in an alley somewhere?"

  "Whoever this new guy is, Paine, he ain't Third Street. He doesn't know how we work. Seems like he don't care to either. He have their own agenda. Fuck if I know what that is seeing as I seemed to be the only one out of the loop over there."

  "You have no idea why he'd want Elsie? I know she was sniffing around your warehouse but..."

  "We don't have a warehouse," Enzo cut me off.

  "The one on Kennedy," I elaborated.

  "The fuck could we use a warehouse for, bro? We deal smack and sell women
. Ain't like we needed manufacturing or to hold stock."

  "She was chased from that warehouse to my shop by Trick and D. So whoever this new guy is, he's got a warehouse on Kennedy for something. And if..." I trailed off as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I reached for it with my free hand, seeing an unknown number and swiping to answer. "Paine," I barked, too impatient to deal with some bullshit wrong number, but knowing I needed to answer because if there was even a slight chance that it was Elsie, I'd never forgive myself for missing it.

  "It's Sawyer," he said in my ear, sounding calm, dangerously so.

  "Shane call you?"

  "Yeah, but I got a call from Barrett first."

  "Barrett?"

  "Try as I might, couldn't keep his ass off the case once he got released. He's crashing on my couch with his laptop. Anyway, he must be keeping tabs on Elsie because he said she dropped a pin."

  "She dropped a pin?" I asked, that meaning absolutely nothing to me.

  "On Facebook. He said she used to do it all the time anytime she went out with friends. To check in or whatever. Until he told her to stop because that was just asking for a stalker. Anyway, she dropped a pin and he called because she dropped it in Third Street territory. Somewhere on Hoover. She pinned it at Barky's, but there's no way she's at a vape shop, let alone advertising that she's at a vape shop. But Barkey's is about a block over from..."

  "The warehouse on Kennedy," I finished for him.

  "You seen the place?" Sawyer asked and I could hear a little tension there. "It's massive. No fucking telling how many men could be in there. I got me and two of my men..."

  "I can get Breaker and Shooter but that's about it..."

  "Better than nothing. Call them. Meet me by Barky's in twenty."

  He disconnected and I called Breaker to fill him in. He would call Shoot. They would meet me at Barky's. Then the six of us would go in and pray like fuck the warehouse wasn't full of the entire God damn Third Street gang.

  "Yo," Enzo called as I made my way out his bedroom door. I turned back with a raised brow. "Under the sink in the kitchen. Both are loaded."

  I nodded tightly. "Thanks."

  With that, I went into the kitchen, grabbed the guns, and tore out of the apartment building, trying not to consider what it meant that Enzo was helping me, that he was out of the gang, that he was not my enemy anymore. That was shit I would think about when I got my eyes and hands on Elsie again, when I knew she was alright.

  D was a wild card.

  When I ran things, I was constantly having to keep an eye on him, make sure he wasn't getting some asinine idea into his head and running with it. He was violent and dumb which, as anyone with half a brain would know, was a really bad combination. He hadn't really hurt her in the video at the gym. True, he'd dragged her. And, yeah, he'd choked her out. But he hadn't beat her. He looked like he was focused on just bringing the mouse home to his master. Which was good. If she didn't piss him off, she would be alright.

  She'd been smart. She'd used the phone to drop a pin, hoping or knowing that Barrett was keeping an eye on her. She was hoping for a rescue. I hoped that meant she knew not to try to fight her way out. There was no way to fight out. Especially not for someone untrained and nowhere near as strong as the men who she would be around.

  I pulled up, parking behind Sawyer's massive SUV, walking up to the three men standing there: Sawyer, his giant wall of muscle named Tig, and Sawyer's other guy, a tall, thin, but strong guy around my age with buzz-cut blond hair, sharp features, and brown eyes. Judging by the wide-legged stance with his hands clasped behind his back, he screamed ex-military.

  "Brock found the car," Sawyer said as soon as I joined them. "Over about half a block in a lot. She'd kicked out the taillight. He found her gym bag in there, but her phone was gone so she lost it, got it taken from her, or, hopefully, still has it on her."

  "Anything else?"

  Tig and Brock shared a look that immediately made me straighten. Whatever 'else' there was, it wasn't good.

  Luckily for me, Sawyer wasn't the kind of man to sugarcoat anything. He turned to me and gave it to me straight, no chaser, no garnish. "Brock found her gym lock. She must have used it to hit D," he said and I felt my stomach start to churn. So much for hoping she wouldn't piss him off. D had a short trigger. You looked at him wrong, he was zero-to-a hundred in a second flat. You came at him with a fucking padlock? Fuck.

  "Say it," I demanded through gritted teeth.

  "Blood and a fair amount of it on the pavement. He said it looks like some of it was from falling and skidding and that some looks spit out."

  "Drag marks?"

  "No. When he took her, he either carried her or she decided to just go with him to save herself any more abuse."

  Shoot's ridiculously expensive car rolled up behind mine and he was out of it before any of us could draw breath. "Break will be here in two, three if he decides to stop at any of the red lights. So... two," he said, nodding at the guys.

  "Warehouse on Kennedy. She went at D with a padlock. She paid for it," I supplied, barely able to get that short retelling of events out with the fire churning in my stomach.

  "And you'll make him pay for whatever he did to her," Shoot said with a look that said he understood. When someone fucked with Amelia, he'd made the entire fucking side of the man's head explode with a bullet. You didn't fuck with what was ours. At least not without expecting to pay for it with your life.

  Breaker's SUV pulled up and he rambled up toward us, all long-legs and coiled muscles, ready for a fight. If it weren't for my rage making me hum like a God-damn psychopath, he would be the most formidable one in our group. Shooter was a bit on the thin side, wiry, great with a gun, but with a gallows type of humor in every situation, making you underestimate his skills. Sawyer and Brock had a calmness about them that spoke of inhuman self-control. Tig was huge, but he had a bit of a gut, making anyone who didn't know him think he would get winded in a fight. But Breaker, Breaker spent a lot of fucking time keeping himself in shape, never knowing who he would be paid to lay the hurt on and what shape they might be in. He was big, bulky, and lethal with a mix of control and rage that made anyone shrink away from him when he was on a job.

  He was on a job.

  And this was personal to him because it was personal to me.

  And that made him all the more dangerous.

  Shoot filled him in and we compared notes.

  "I don't know how fucking long you plan on watching this place when who-knows what is happening to her in there," I growled as we stood beside a building to the left of the warehouse, watching the door.

  We'd been there fifteen or twenty minutes already just fucking waiting and watching.

  All we'd seen was D walk out for a smoke then go back in.

  I took a bit of comfort in the nasty fucking bruise he had on his cheek.

  If she hit him, at least she managed to do some damage.

  "Quiet," Sawyer barked, pointing toward the building.

  When I looked again, there was a new car parked out front. It was late model and expensive. The driver and passenger doors opened and two people stepped out. One, I recognized as one of Enzo's former higher-ups, the guy who he would bring with him to go pick up the shipments of H when it came in.

  And the other person...

  "No fucking way," I hissed.

  SEVENTEEN

  Elsie

  The door opened and closed four times when I was in the office, the sound reverberating around all the metal walls. I flinched every time, my shoulders going up toward my ears, my heart starting to hammer in my chest. The first two times, nothing happened. Someone must have just went outside and then came back in. The second and third times, there was an automatic hush to all babble outside the office and I figured that meant that the boss was there.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and I froze. But it was only Trick. "Come on," he said, sounding suddenly tired.

  Pretty sure I had no choice, I sl
owly got up and moved toward him, stepping into the doorway and following where he was taking me which seemed to be toward the group of three people standing in a circle. One was D. Another was some guy I didn't recognize. The third was...

  "No," I hissed, stopping mid stride and drawing the full attention from the trio.

  I wasn't absolutely positive at first.

  But then the second that they all fully turned toward me, oh yeah, I was sure.

  Freaking positive actually.

  "Elana?" I asked, my voice a strange, raspy sound.

  Her hair was different. It had been long and blond when I had last seen her and now it was cut in a long bob, brushing her shoulders, and dyed a deep, rich brown which only made the gray eyes she'd inherited from our father pop all the more. She had on plain black slacks, spiky heels, and a tight gray sweater that stretched over her, admittedly much larger than mine, boobs. I hated to admit it because, Lord knew, if she was in the Third Street gang's warehouse on Kennedy then she was not in a good place mentally, but she looked good. She was standing straighter, her eyes looked clear, her hair cut and color really suited her. She looked like the best version of herself.

  "Elsie?" she gasped and I figured she had no idea I was there. She turned back toward D so fast that she actually blurred to my eyes. "What the fuck happened to her?" she demanded with so much viciousness that D actually went back a step. Hell, I even felt myself straightening and she wasn't talking to, or looking at, me.

  It was right then though, watching D flinch away in fear, that I understood.

  Elsie wasn't there because she was looking for some heroin.

  She wasn't even there because she was being extorted.

  She hadn't fallen in love with one of the men in Third Street.

  No.