“Get her under fuckin’ control!” one man barks, right before a set of hands grab at my biceps. Fighting like a wild dog, I unleash my fists, elbows, feet—everything that I can use to connect with scraps of flesh. Profanities clog the air as I control my surprisingly stealthy body, refusing to admit defeat to these goons.
Seconds slip by like hours as they come at me—hands trying to pin me down, seeking a firm grip. Idle threats are launched into the air like clay pigeons. Not once do I back down. No way are these fuckers taking me without a fight. I don’t give a shit who they are. I’m not gonna give up. If they didn’t want me alive, I’d be dead already.
Quickly running low on steam, my gut screams for me to defend or flee. I can barely do either at this point as the frigid air burns my lungs, on the verge of freezing. I’m screwed.
Pausing too long to catch my breath, something that feels like a high-speed school bus hits me square in the chest, slamming my back against the side of my car, knocking the wind out of me, and stealing what little footing I have left. There’s a deafening crack as my head collides with a windowpane. Warmth blooms on the back of my skull.
Shit! I’m bleeding.
Stars dance in my vision as I scramble to right myself. It’s weak at best. I reclaim my stance, shaky fists up, ready to take on the world.
“You aren’t gonna take me alive, motherfuckers!” I hiss, my sight nothing more than a wall of white and foggy lenses. The tension on my throat cuts deeper. I’m barely able to draw air. If this doesn’t end soon, I’m gonna faint, and I can’t let that happen.
Foolishly, I wave them forward in a last ditch effort to whip their asses, even if my odds are slim. “Come on. Let’s do this,” I growl, voice made of steel.
Warm blood soaks through the back of my hair, cooling rapidly in the subzero temperatures. A residual ache radiates across my chest, thanks to whatever they hit me with. Likely a shoulder—a massive one. Drops of ice cold sweat drips into my eyes. I blink the sting away. Let’s do this!
“We can’t stay out here any longer. The cops are gonna show. Get her in the van. She’s not gonna give up,” a man says, chuckling under his breath in what sounds vaguely like respect.
“No! You do it. I think she busted my rib,” another grouses.
“Pussies,” the first man retorts, his voice growing closer.
Prepared to strike, I tighten my fists, itching to sock him as hard as I can. If I’m going down, so is this dipshit. Bring it on.
His form stops close enough that I can feel the warmth of his exhales, and the scent of musky cologne carries on the wind. Unfortunately, there’s too much distance I’d have to travel in order to connect cleanly. I can’t risk falling. These fur boots were made for fashion. Not practicality. My toes are already starting to numb as the slushy snow seeps into the fabric. I’d planned on wearing them for my date tonight, which doesn’t look promising.
“Katrina, I know you’re a brave woman, and willing to fight ‘til we gotta hurt ya. But I don’t wanna do that. I don’t like hurting women. Especially pregnant ones,” the first goon reasons.
“Coulda fooled me, shithead,” I snarl, which comes out more like a painful wheeze. A fog of darkness seeps into the edge of my vision, and my feet sway. To keep from falling, I lean against the car for support, one hand wrapped around my door handle, the other prepared to brawl. This isn’t good. The tightness around my neck feels like a knife’s trying to sever my body from its head—a dull guillotine.
“Let me take the bag off, Katrina. This doesn’t have to be any harder than it already is. You don’t want to injure yourself, do ya?” The man’s voice is abnormally soothing—deceptive. I’m not buying his crap for a fucking minute.
Inhaling a difficult lungful of air, I force out what I gotta say, “Sir … no offense, but you can go suck a big bag of dicks if you think I’m gonna go quietly.”
“Suit yourself.”
Before I can ask what the hell he means by that, my head swims as if I’ve held my breath for over a minute. A dark veil drops over my eyes. Then, I’m falling down a well, blunt coldness shocking my system as a frightening blackness welcomes me to the abyss.
With a thin blanket tucked around my waist, I glare at the metal door that separates me from the dickheads beyond. I’m a prisoner, held captive in what appears to be some sort of drafty warehouse. The walls are made of stacked cinder blocks; the floor chipped concrete. There’s a tiny window high up the wall that provides little sunshine. If it weren’t for the swaying light bar hanging from the ceiling, it’d be pitch black. The place smells cold and vaguely like grease. There’s no noise, apart from the eerie sound of wind whistling through the unsealed cracks. The temperature rests just above freezing, making my lungs protest with each inhalation. For umpteen hours, I’ve remained on this godforsaken circa WWII cot, curled into a dainty ball, trying to stay warm. The good news is my toes are so numb I can no longer feel them. Then again, perhaps that’s not something to rejoice in.
Hours ago, a day at most, I was taken by these men. I’m not sure how long I was passed out in the back of their van before I awoke with a bag still over my head, and my arms restrained in front of me, attached to cable ties that cut into my ankles. Fortunately, I was able to breathe freely, and the captors paid me no mind as they drove to our destination. It felt as if we traveled for hours, through turns and random bumps that jostled my tired body. But it could have been minutes. I can’t be certain.
When we arrived, my cable ties were cut, giving me the perfect opportunity to enact retribution using my feet. That lasted all of three seconds. One kick to someone’s knee and there was a knife pressed to my carotid. The fear of death is what propelled me through the cavernous building, and into the room I temporarily call home. There’s not much to look at here. They left a tin bucket in the corner with a roll of toilet paper. I’m ashamed to say I’ve used that disgusting thing twice. They also left a whole loaf of sliced bread and two bottles of water. If I were some badass Jason Bourne chick, I would have fashioned some sort of weapon or device to get me out of this dank hellhole. Regrettably, I might be able to defend myself, to a degree, but that’s as far as my talents go. There’s nothing else I’ve been able to do. I’ve yelled to no avail. Nobody has returned to talk to me. It’s as if I’m stuck here all alone, waiting for the executioner.
I shiver at the thought, rubbing my hands together to keep warm. At least they let me keep my jacket and clothes. I discarded my sodden shoes shortly after I arrived. They’re tucked in the corner. Hopefully, they dry out soon. I need them to keep my toes from getting frostbite.
Resting my head against the wall, I sigh inwardly, licking my chapped lips. This sucks. I have no clue what my captors want or what they expect me to do for them. Thank God my mom watches the girls after school, or on snow days. I’m sure they’re sick with worry. Fuck! I pray they didn’t go after them, too. What if they did? No. They wouldn’t. Right?
A ball of dread unfurls in my gut, making me twitchy.
“Hello?!” I holler for the hundredth time. The word echoes back at me, a sad reminder that nobody’s listening.
Maybe I should try to get some sleep to restore my energy. I’m going to need as much as I can for the road ahead. Something tells me it’s not gonna be pretty. Not if it has anything to do with what I think it does.
Holy hell! My face burns like molten lava. Tears well in my eyes that I refuse to let fall. I will not let these bastards get to me. They can try all they want, but I won’t break. Another flash of scalding pain slashes across my cheek as King Bastard slaps me, making my teeth rattle. My nose begins to bleed, dripping down my lips and off the tip of my chin, onto my torn shirt that’s hanging halfway off my ice-cold shoulder.
I spit a wad of mucus and blood toward his booted foot. It lands short.
Damn!
“You fucking, little bitch!” he roars. “You’re gonna tell me what I want to know!”
A hand wrapped around my throat
woke me from a shivering slumber hours ago. The man hauled me out of bed and tied me to a chair in the middle of the room. My ankles are bound to the wooden legs, arms tied behind me. At first, he’d been polite, asking about my father, wanting to know where he was, testing to see what kind of info I would give him. I refused to say anything. So he tore half my clothes off, threatening to rape me if I didn’t talk. That didn’t frighten me. To rape someone, you have to be able to get between their legs and hold them down long enough to penetrate. I knew he’d either have to knock me out to accomplish this or have his men help. And let’s face it, guys like this douche nozzle don’t like asking for assistance to fuck somebody. At least that’s what my gut’s been saying. I’ve been listening to its subtle objections and guidance ever since I was brought here. That may sound weird. Then again, it’s rarely wrong. It’s gotten me this far. I’m not dead yet.
The big brute with two rotted front teeth paces, his heavy stomps ricocheting in the room. He cards a frustrated hand through his shiny black hair. It sticks up every which way. Not from product, but his lack of hygiene. Why they sent him here is beyond me. If they expect me to take him seriously, they should’ve sent someone more menacing than this. His floppy ears and too large nose make him look like a clown. His body’s fat; not muscled. Though I’m sure he could kick my ass if he tried hard enough. He’s lucky my arms aren’t loose because then I’d make it a fair fight.
Slapping his palm against the open metal door, he seethes in my direction, spittle flinging from his lips. “Why were you in Texas?”
“We’ve been over this. I was taking care of some business.”
“Bullshit! You were with the Sacred Sinners!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, and do it so well that the man, I can tell, wants to believe me.
Snarling, he punches the door, clearly exasperated by my lack of cooperation. “Listen, Kat. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Coulda fooled me. You’ve slapped me four times since you returned, and threatened to rape me as you tore off my clothes. If you were going for nice, then I’d hate to see you when you’re mean.”
I add the last to boost his ego as I fake shiver, making him sound scarier than he really is. He’s been rattling the same questions nonstop for hours. A while ago, he left when a man came to the door, and just returned with a dark gleam in his eye. Something tells me whatever he found out wasn’t in my favor. So a little ego bump never hurt anyone. Especially if that means he doesn’t beat me any more than he already has. My lip hurts like a mother.
The satisfied smirk he directs my way says my intended compliment was successful—idiot. “Just tell me where the money is, Kat. Or tell me where your dad is and where he hid the cash. Then we’ll let you go.”
Sighing, I close my eyes to keep from blowing up. This man has been droning on and on about some money my father stole from them when I was a teenager. It’s as if they think I know where it is. When, in reality, I don’t. Not that I’d tell them if I did. They can go suck a toe.
Reopening my eyes, exhausted and ready to lie down for a nap, I reply, “Listen, dude, I’ve already told you … Michael Remington is dead. I buried him when I was fourteen. And I have no idea about the money. That’s the truth.”
And it is. I’m just omitting the fact that my dad, Ghost, is very much alive. For all intents and purposes, Michael is deceased. There’s legal documents that state as such.
“I’ve given you a chance to change your story, Katrina. I’ve been patient, hoping you’d stop being a stubborn bitch. I don’t wanna do what my prez ordered. But you’ve given me no choice. I know you’re lying. The bitch we just brought in has already told us what we need to know.”
Stepping closer, his body looming over mine, my captor extracts a knife from his belt and holds it to my cheek, pressing hard enough to break the skin. I don’t move or make any noise. Staring straight ahead, I digest his words as my flesh screams in agony. Someone here’s fueling their wickedness. That doesn’t mean I’m giving in. I wasn’t raised to admit defeat. Do I wanna die? No. But I’d rather die a martyr than a rat. Who’s to say they wouldn’t kill me after I told them the truth anyhow? Not that they’d know the truth if it bit them in the nuts.
Grinding my teeth, air puffing from my nostrils at a maddening pace, I fight through the blinding pain. The tip of the knife drags downward, tearing deeper into flesh. The tears I can no longer withhold sting the cut upon their descent. Mashing my quivering lips together, I swallow hard to stifle a wretched scream.
“Huh,” the man murmurs, disengaging the blade and wiping my blood on his jeans before tucking the weapon away.
I exhale, relieved, my head slumping forward as my life force continues to trickle down my face.
“You didn’t scream. You’re tougher than I thought.”
Ignoring him, I stare at my lap, concentrating on breathing and my daughter, who’s decided to somersault in my stomach. She’s the only reason I’ve controlled my mouth this long. If I had it my way, I’d be cursing him up one side and down the other—consequences be damned. As he said, I’m a stubborn bitch. Like father like daughter.
“Now, Katrina, are you gonna tell me what I wanna know?”
Squeezing my eyes shut for half a second, I summon every ounce of strength I have left and lift my head. Across the room, the black-haired jerk is staring at me, a weird expression on his face—it could be a grimace or an ugly smile, I’m not sure which.
Tasting my lips, I clean the dried blood away, internally wincing at the cut I didn’t realize was there. “If—” I clear my throat, voice raw. “If the person you said was here told you what you wanted to know, then why do you need to keep harassing me for? Either you’re lying, or she’s not said a thing.”
Clenching his fist, he cracks his neck from side to side. “You want me to hurt you, don’t ya? You’re just askin’ for me to rape you. Why else would you be so fuckin’ stupid?”
Oh. That fucker just pushed the wrong goddamn button.
My temper flares to new heights, burning my last bit of sanity to dust. “Stupid? I don’t know what you expect me to tell you about some fictitious money. How many times do I have to reiterate that? And, furthermore, Mr. Ignorant, raping me is a choice that has nothing to do with what I say, and everything to do with sick minded men who think a woman’s actions are a way to justify their immoral ones. I’m not the problem here. You are. I have rights. I did nothing to you, or whatever boy-band club you’re a part of. Abusing a pregnant, defenseless woman is low, even for scum like you—who wouldn’t even know how to lick a pussy if it came with an instruction manual.”
There’s a deafening roar that vibrates through my chest an instant before the bastard lunges, slapping me so hard my face twists to the side and my world crumbles to blackness.
A throbbing headache is my welcome present when I finally come around. Everywhere screams in excruciating protest, all the way from my bare toes to hair follicles. I know, I know, you’re probably gonna say I was stupid for losing my temper. That I brought this upon myself. I should’ve been quiet. Am I right? I sure hope not. I hope you see this how I do. Sick men kidnapping a woman and expecting her to bow to their every whim. Well, as idiotic as this may sound, I can’t do that. I’m sorry. I just can’t. Judge me if you will, but no man should ever raise a hand to a woman, regardless if she insults him or not. My beaten face is a perfect example of that. I think he even knocked a tooth loose. Touching my tongue to it, it wiggles more than I care to acknowledge.
Chin to my chest, I feign sleep, doing my best to overcome the agony so I can eavesdrop on the men conversing in the hall. The blood rushing through my ears makes it difficult to hear.
“You knocked her out cold. Prez told you to scare her into submission. Not injure her. How do you think the Sacred Sinners are gonna react when they see you’ve cut her face?”
“They’re not gonna care as long as she’s alive,” Mr. Ignorant counters.
&n
bsp; “Are you that dumb, motherfucker? Of course, they’re gonna care. Their club is five times bigger than ours. And, they’ve got support clubs. We don’t wanna go to war, Tanner. Prez just wants our money back, and Mike to pay for what he did. Not hurt his only daughter. That’s why we’ve been keepin’ tabs on her for so long, but never touched her. She’s an innocent in all this.”
“Like it matters. She’s just a woman. The other one’s who they want. We didn’t lay a finger on her.”
“Are you shittin’ me? Did ya forget what I told you?”
“The other is one of their old ladies, right? Bear’s daughter-in-law? Katrina isn’t any of those things. She’s expendable.”
Vanessa? They have Vanessa, too? She’s the one who ratted the club out? What’d she tell them?
A bolt of possessive anger slices through my chest.
How could she do that?!
The rational man growls his contempt. “You just cut Mike’s daughter’s face, you idiot. That Vanessa chick already told us that Kat and their prez’s son have kids. They might not be together anymore, but that don’t change the facts, dumb shit. That’s why she went to Texas to begin with. To get her ex back. I don’t know a man who’s gonna be cool with his baby’s mama gettin’ cut up. Do you?”
That rat is such a liar! I never went there for Ryker. I went there for my father.
“He’s gonna like it a whole helluva lot better if his pregnant old lady isn’t cut up, too. I’d be happy to give them matchin’ faces.”
“Shut the fuck up! She might be a feisty cunt, but you’re not fuckin’ this up for us. They agreed to a trade. So you’ve got twelve hours to clean up her face before we meet! Ya got me?”
“I will do no such thing. She can sit in that chair and rot for all I give a fuck.”
Hopeful Whispers Page 3
