A few minutes later, the other men returned. They spoke quietly and then went back out. The big man disappeared upstairs, returning with the bag of zip ties in one hand.
“Let’s get you taken care of, Doc. And then we’ll worry about Special fucking Agent Clay Navarro.”
As the man tightened the tie around her wrists, something about those sharp plastic edges felt so familiar. Their feel was oddly grounding, but it wasn’t just that. It was…sentimental, maybe? It trapped her hands, yes, making escape almost entirely impossible, but it also served to link her to Clay, who was out there somewhere, still safe. Still alive.
In this moment, George didn’t mind the idea of dying. She would have let go, giving in to something that seemed inevitable, if it weren’t for Jessie and Gabe, who could quite possibly run straight into the trap.
And then another idea occurred to her—the memory or realization, or maybe a hope, that she could, right at this very moment, be pregnant. And if she gave up, that baby would never see the light of day. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, George wanted the chance to have something real with Clay—a baby, if that were in the cards, but at the very least, a future.
And in that moment, she knew she would do whatever it took to survive.
* * *
Steve had left Clay a set of keys to his place before taking off, giving him full responsibility for cleaning up, turning off lights, and locking the gym. It took forever. The bastard.
Although, Clay decided, it didn’t actually feel half-bad, having this type of responsibility. The kids were… Christ, they were awesome.
On his way to the door, he caught sight of one of Jessie’s self-defense training brochures—more of a card, really—offering private classes, as well as the weekly group sessions. He picked it up with some notion that he’d take it to George, maybe convince her to give it a try.
Walking out of the school, he glanced around the street, taking in details by rote—what cop didn’t?—and then stopped dead at what he saw.
A Harley. A fucking chopper, parked behind the Dumpster at the end of the building. Pulse picking up, he took another glance around, slowed his pace, and walked carefully, carefully, to the bike. He knew this bike. Like the back of his hand. Jam’s bike. Here, in Blackwood.
He’d ignored the sound earlier, sure he was imagining it yet again. He’d felt so in control when his heart hadn’t taken off like it used to, only now… Christ, this time, he’d been wrong. So fucking wrong and…there, a few feet away, was a purse. George’s massive purse, in a pile on the road.
After that, things moved too fast, Clay’s brain set to autopilot as he sprinted to his truck, noting that her car was nowhere to be seen, and turned the key once, twice, almost flooding the fucking engine.
Calm down. Calm down. He put the truck into gear and pulled out into the road, with no idea where he was headed. Wait. He screeched to a halt. His phone. He reached for it and powered it up. He’d call George. He had her number somewhere. Where was that card? It took a few seconds to find it and type in the number. It rang twice before someone picked up.
“George?” he gasped, his breathing ragged, like he’d just run a marathon. “George, where are you?”
“Oh, hey! Indian? That you, man?”
The voice gave Clay the shakes. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Ape.”
“Hey, man,” Ape went on, sounding frighteningly chipper. “Got somethin’ that belongs to you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Clay forced out, trying his damnedest to sound calm.
A muffled sound on the phone, and then George’s voice, thin and scared. “Clay? They’re at my house, but I’m fine. Fine. Don’t you dare come here. I’m—”
“Don’t listen to her, man. I’m about to—”
“You touch a hair on her body, and you’re a dead man, Ape. Dead,” he said, only to be met with Ape’s cheerfully sordid laugh.
“Trade you. Your life for hers,” the fucker said before hanging up.
An image of Carly’s corpse flashed through Clay’s mind. Only this time, it had George’s face.
He accelerated hard, ignoring the irate honk from the car he’d almost sideswiped, and took off toward her house.
He’d kill them. Ape and Jam and whoever else was with them. He’d use his hands and his knife, and he’d mess them up so bad they’d be unidentifiable.
That animal part of him, the part that wanted to take over, was roaring, a deep, dangerous primal scream like he’d never experienced in his entire fucking life, and he knew he’d tear them apart. Fuck, he’d—
From out of nowhere came an image of George, touching him, healing him, maybe just a little bit loving him, and everything stopped. He couldn’t do any of those things. She wouldn’t want him to. And was that truly who he was?
He’d be no better than them if he murdered them, would he? He was supposed to be one of the good guys. No matter how many times the job had forced him to cross over to the other side, he’d always been a cop.
You are one of the good guys, he told himself, only it didn’t sound like his voice. It sounded like George’s.
He worked hard to think like an agent instead of one of those monsters. He needed to think, to make a plan. What would he do if George wasn’t part of this equation?
Steve. He’d call Steve Mullen. No calling 911, which would put up red flags everywhere, notify the ATF and anybody linked to DOJ. Steve was the only person who had no skin in this game, the only one he could trust.
Working hard at faking a calm he didn’t feel, he reached for his phone, kept his eye on the road while he dug out the guy’s business card, and dialed.
It went to voice mail after too many rings, and Clay came close to losing it again.
Almost to Jason Lane, after trying the number a million times, Clay finally broke down and dialed 911. He had no choice, did he?
When the woman asked him to state his emergency, he hesitated. Kidnapping, attempted murder. Those words would raise a red flag so big that half the fucking state would be here in no time at all. There had to be a way he could save George and keep himself out of sight long enough to see those fuckers in court.
Instead, he told the woman it was a personal matter and asked her to relay him to the sheriff. When he finally came on the line, Steve Mullen sounded irritated.
“What’s the problem, Blane? I got a four-car pile-up on the interstate here.”
“I’ve got an emergency, sir.”
“What’s going on, son?”
“This is being recorded, right?”
A pause. “Yep.”
“Need to talk to you offline. Please.” He gave the man his number and waited for the call to come through.
“Why all the cloak and dagger, Blane?”
“They’ve got Dr. Hadley.”
“Who has her?”
“Sultans MC,” he spat out. “I’m headed to her place now. They’re gonna—”
“Slow down, son, I can’t hear you. Where they at?”
“Her place, Jason Lane.”
“Why you calling me on the down low like this?”
“Sultans have someone on the inside. I got no idea who.”
“Hell.”
“At least one person, maybe a couple.”
“Trust no one.”
“I trust you, Sheriff. I’m going in there. I’ve got to, before they hurt her. I can take care of this, but I need your backup. And I need you to keep this quiet.”
“Go.” The sheriff paused. “I’m about twenty minutes behind you.” Another pause. “And don’t do anything stupid, son, got me?”
A few blocks away, he caught sight of Jessie’s self-defense card on the seat beside him. George had told him all about her neighbor and her cute kid. He hadn’t paid it much mind at the time, but now his head was
ringing. If the woman and her kid were home, they could get caught in the crossfire. He dialed the number on the card, and she picked up.
“Ms. Shifflett, this is Clay Navarro.”
“Who?”
Fuck, he was losing it. “My name is Andrew Blane. I’m…I’m undercover ATF. I’m a friend of George Hadley’s. Your neighbor? Look, it’s too much to explain. There’s shit going down at George’s place. I need you to grab your kid and get out of there.”
“What are you—”
“Do it. Go. Now. Call the sheriff if you have to, but go. I don’t want to have to worry about two more people getting caught up in this.”
“Christ,” she muttered under her breath, then paused for an excruciating few seconds and asked, “Are you there, right now, at George’s place?”
“I’m on my way. I’ll get her out.”
She let out a little distressed noise at that. “You mean they’ve got her? George is in there with somebody?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Go. We’ll be fine. Just go.”
Clay hung up, took the last turn onto Jason Lane too fast, and parked down the street from George’s house. He thought his approach was quiet, although he couldn’t tell through the pounding in his ears. Don’t hurt her. Please don’t let her be hurt.
He set off into the woods, giving the house a wide berth in case they’d set up a perimeter. The woods felt familiar as he crept toward her place, the night sounds no longer an enemy but a friend, covering up his approach.
Close enough to see the house now, he waited, working hard to keep his breathing normal and force his adrenaline down to where it wouldn’t impede him.
It took a good minute for his eyes to find the person waiting in the night. Just a shadow from here, but so familiar that his heart took a bright leap toward hope. Backup! Help. Someone on his side!
The shadow moved slightly away from the shed, and Clay’s conscious mind recognized the man. That feeling of safety and friendship and relief exploded into a million tiny splinters of betrayal, each one sharp enough to gouge out his soul.
Tyler. Tyler fucking Olson, his best friend in the whole world. The man who’d always had his back since they were kids. Clay was godfather to two of the man’s children, for Christ’s sake. And Tyler was the inside man who’d betrayed him.
Nearly doubled over, it took him a while to push past the agony of it, to stand back up and recognize how obvious it should have been. That night at the club, his call for help. Tyler’d done nothing to help him. Nothing. And later, he’d been so goddamned interested in where Clay was hiding out, hadn’t he?
He’d been meaning to sell his location to Ape all along.
Quietly, without a clear plan, he made his way toward the silhouette, acid roiling like hate in his belly.
“Tyler.”
“Fuck!” Tyler turned, fast, with one hand flying to his gun, and then stopped when he saw who it was. His expression went through a quick, complicated change, shock morphing into guilt morphing into a smooth liar’s smile. “Jesus, don’t do that, man. You’ll give me a goddamned heart attack.”
Clay couldn’t say a word for the first few seconds, but he kept moving closer, this face-off feeling inevitable.
“Wow, bro,” Tyler said, nervously stepping back and filling the tense silence. “I forgot how fucked up you look with that shit on your face.”
“My tats?” Clay growled. “You’re just standing out here in my woman’s yard while she’s being held by those murderers, and you want to have a conversation about my tats?” Oh, the rage was coming back now, cleaning out the shock and the hurt in a way that felt righteous and strong. “Why don’t you tell me more about these tats, you fucking asshole? Maybe tell me how you could possibly have stopped some of this from happening?”
“Christ, man. What are you talkin’ about?”
“That’s how you’re gonna play it, then?” He indicated the house, glowing with an ironic warmth beyond them. “Just stand here and pretend like you didn’t sell me to the highest bidder? I don’t have time for you.” Clay looked away and swallowed before letting the rage take wing and hauling back to send his fist flying, right at the fucker’s face. It connected with a satisfying crunch.
He didn’t feel a thing, though. Nothing except rage and the need to destroy, but all the while the clock was ticking. He had to go. Fuck Tyler.
“What the hell, man? Clay, Clay…” Tyler staggered and wiped his mouth, coming away with blood.
“She inside, you motherfucker? You set her up?”
“She’s in there.”
“You gave her to ’em?”
“Nah, man, I—”
There was no time for more of his lies. “Shut the fuck up.”
Tyler’s expression changed before he shifted and started to reach for his gun, but he was no match for Clay. Tyler, who sat behind a desk and pretended to be a good man, versus Clay, who’d spent so many years out there, working hard to pass as filth. He put a hand around the man’s neck and pinned him to the side of the shed, disarming him easily. So fucking easily. “What the hell do you get out of this, huh?”
Tyler opened his mouth, as if to defend himself, then closed it.
“You not even gonna give me that?” Every one of Clay’s words was a whispered arrow, flying at his target, wanting, needing to hurt him. “When’d you start working with them?”
“When?” Tyler asked. “When they showed up at my goddamned door is when.”
“I was under?”
“Yeah. Just toward the end.”
“Before I got shot?”
A pause. “Yeah.”
“So, the night you were supposed to send the team in to get me out? The delay? That was—”
“You don’t fucking get it, do you, Clay? One Saturday, those fucking bastards just show up at my house, with Jayda and the kids in the backyard, and…fuck, man. I didn’t have a choice.”
There was always a choice.
“You set me up to get shot in the back.” Something about his voice must have gotten through to Tyler, because he went still.
“’Course not, man. ’Course not,” Tyler whined, sounding defeated, and Clay backed away. He couldn’t let this go. Would never let this go.
“You the one who killed Bread, Ty? Was that you?” He moved his hand away from Tyler’s neck, blinking at the pain of all this deception.
“What? Fuck no, man.”
“They get his location from you?”
Tyler didn’t answer, but the truth was visible in the slope of his shoulders, the way his lips turned down at the edges, and even under cover of darkness, he couldn’t look Clay in the eye.
“And here?” Through the barrage of pain, a slice of anger came back. Clay was furious. “You sicced them on George? You—”
“It’s not my fault, man. I—”
Clay hauled back and punched Tyler again, the fury taking over, the fear for her life pushing through the bullshit excuses. He punched him again, fending off Tyler’s counters. And again. Another time on the chin, and the man was down, cowering in the dry grass like the fucking coward he was. The urge to kill him was strong, so strong, pulsing inside him like a caged beast, dying to be let out.
Don’t do it. You’re better than that, came that reasonable voice that he thought of as George’s.
A look toward the front of the house showed no sign of the sheriff, but it didn’t matter. It was time. Time to go in and get his woman out.
“You fucking coward,” he spat, grabbing Tyler’s gun and holding it on him, steady. “I should fucking kill you right now. That’s the best you deserve.”
“I know, man. I know.” His hand tightened on Tyler’s handgun, the urge so strong it hurt. “Do it. Kill me. Christ, kill me ’cause I can’t take it anymore.”
Clay stilled. That
instinct to hurt and kill, it wasn’t his, was it? It belonged to the men he pretended to be, but not to him. Not now and not ever.
With something like pity, he shook his head at the man he’d once considered his best friend and, almost tenderly, hauled off, punching him with a final blow to the temple that knocked Tyler unconscious.
Then he stalked off to save the woman he loved.
* * *
Being terrified did strange things to George. Unexpected things. Her body was tired, inappropriately heavy with exhaustion where she lay on the sofa in her front room. But there was a strength to it too, a you just go ahead and touch me thing whenever one of the men came close to her. She was convinced she’d fight like crazy if they tried anything on her.
Which seemed increasingly inevitable as the minutes passed. The off-color remarks—things about her tits, as they called them—were growing filthier, their words slurred, their footsteps heavier. Her kitchen must be a wreck by now, judging from the sounds. She didn’t know how many there were in her house. Two? Maybe three?
George lay low, being as quiet as possible, unsure if that was the right thing to do or if she would be better off attracting their attention. Wishing she’d made it to Jessie’s self-defense class—but then, two against one seemed like unbeatable odds, even if she knew what she was doing. They were huge. And mean. The thought of Jessie, right next door with Gabe, their place so close, nearly threw her into a panic.
Something from the back of the house crashed, and she wiggled her arms again, trying to loosen them from the zip tie that bound her.
God, how much longer could she wait like this? A useless sitting duck, nothing but a decoy to get Clay here. She had to do something.
“Excuse me,” she finally called. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Fucking chicks,” said one of the men in the kitchen.
“Let her piss herself,” said the boss guy in his nasally voice.
“I’ll take her,” a third voice responded. Jam, the man who’d nearly strangled her in the car.
“Jesus Christ, man, you gonna let her piss on you too?”
By Her Touch Page 30
