by Lane Hart
“But can you guarantee that I’ll be safe?” I ask.
“Of course,” Ashby says, taking a sip of his coffee. “If at any time you think you’re in danger, we could ask the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District to take over the case, and they could put you in WITPRO.”
“WITPRO? What’s that?”
“Witness Protection,” Rollins explains.
“Oh. Okay,” I say since that makes me feel a little safer.
“But we would only recommend the case to the federal prosecutor if you give us a lead that pans out. If we end up catching these guys without your help, you could still be in danger, but we wouldn’t be able to do anything to protect you.”
“Fine! I may have heard a name,” I say because I don’t want to ever be locked up again or murdered by some insane motorcycle crew. “But I was screaming. It was hard to hear. He had just shot a man right in front of me!”
“What name?” Ashby presses.
“I think it was Nash. One of the men said, ‘What the fuck, Nash’ right after he pulled the trigger.”
“So this ‘Nash’ was the shooter, the killer?” Rollins asks for clarification.
“Yes.”
“You saw him fire the gun that killed the guard that was found dead in the kitchen?” Rollins reiterates.
“Like I said, it was hard to hear. They were arguing, and I was screaming,” I say.
“Do you think you could identify the shooter if you saw and heard him again?”
“If he was wearing a helmet, maybe,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know! It was dark and hectic! I was terrified,” I remind them, turning on the waterworks since I didn’t have any part of setting up the mob boss and didn’t know any of those men.
The two detectives share a look while I wipe away my tears with my fingers.
“I think that’s all we need for now,” Detective Ashby says when he gets to his feet. “You’re free to leave, Miss Walsh, but stay in town. If we make an arrest, then we’ll need you to come in for a lineup.”
“Sure, okay,” I agree as I quickly stand up and sling my purse over my shoulder. “You know where to find me.”
On the way out of the police station, I feel a great deal of relief that I’m not in trouble, but there’s also a strange sense of…foreboding.
What if the little information I gave the detectives results in those men getting arrested? Or hurts that woman who was in danger? I would feel awful, but it’s better than going down for something I didn’t do yet again.
Chapter Two
Silas
* * *
A few days later…
* * *
“Meeting in the chapel now,” Malcolm, our president and Jesus look-alike, says when he opens the back door of the pool hall where I’m smoking a joint. I’m not usually a day smoker, but the shit with Nash getting arrested has me on edge.
“Good news or bad?” I ask him when I offer him the blunt.
Malcolm narrows his eyes at the offering, opening his mouth to decline before he says, “Fuck it.” He takes a quick hit and then puts it out in the ashtray beside me. “Not great, but we may have a lead on the witness,” he says. “Let’s go. You good? We need everyone’s head on straight.”
“I’m straight as a fucking arrow,” I tell him. I barely feel a buzz thanks to the tremors of anxiety racking me.
The Dirty Aces MC has been the only home I’ve had where someone gave a shit if I lived or died. The boys aren’t just my friends but my brothers, accepting me despite my emotional distance. They would die for me, same as I would for them.
Knowing that Nash, one of the most decent and loyal human beings I’ve ever met, is currently locked up facing a life sentence is complete bullshit. It should be me on the inside instead of him. I know for a fact that my body count from the night we crashed Harold Cox’s house was higher than anyone else’s. Killing is in my blood, not his. So, just like the other guys, I’ll do whatever it takes to get Nash home.
In the chapel, I’m not all that surprised to see the pixie girl is back, leaning against the wall. Surprisingly, she’s been busting her ass with her computer skills to try and find something to help our boy. The fact that she looks optimistic and not doomed is a good sign.
I’m the last one to take a seat at the table, so Malcolm jumps right in. “Thanks to Jetta and Lucy, we’ve got a home address for the chef. She’s been laying low, probably afraid even though the DA promised to keep her name off the record. She knows we’re not stupid and would eventually realize it was her. That’s why she hasn’t been at work and the house she’s staying in is deeded to her parents.”
The chef? Oh, right, the scared redhead we found in the pantry at Cox’s house.
“How are we going to handle her?” Wirth asks.
“You’ve got the chop shop to run,” Malcolm starts. “Devlin and Fiasco have their construction jobs, I’ve got the MC businesses and a kid to take care of, so I’m thinking we let Silas handle this one. Not to mention he may be the only one of us who has the balls to kidnap and hold a woman hostage.”
“Fuck yeah,” I easily agree. If killing comes as easy to me as breathing, then kidnapping is probably something I could do in my sleep. I know for a fact I can handle it better than any other man at this table. Whatever conscience I possess won’t get in the way of making sure this woman doesn’t say a word in court about Nash. Not to mention, I’ve always had a fetish for ropes and gags…
“You cannot, I repeat, cannot kill her no matter what, do you understand?” Malcolm grits out. “I would prefer if you don’t hurt her either, if at all possible.”
Shit. If he doesn’t want me to hurt her, then I guess bondage is out the window. That means I’ll need to come up with another idea besides keeping her tied up in a secluded basement. And I’ll need to do it fast since the clock is ticking. This will need to be a nicer, more humane version of kidnapping. This chick is already terrified, probably unable to sleep at night, worried we’re going to come after her…
Ah, and there’s my fucking answer.
“I’ve got this,” I assure Malcolm. “I won’t let you all or Nash down. And the woman? She won’t even know she’s a hostage.”
“How the hell are you gonna manage that?” Devlin asks with his brow furrowed.
Cracking my knuckles, I tell him, “Now I can’t go around giving away all of my secrets.”
The truth is, if I told the guys what I’ve got in mind, they probably would think I couldn’t pull it off. I have to, though, no matter how insane my plan might be. I don’t need any of their doubts getting in my head.
“You’re a sick bastard,” Wirth says to me with a shake of his head, well aware of how my fucked-up mind works.
“Keep her in one piece,” Malcolm reiterates, as if it’s necessary, like I’m a small child who didn’t understand him the first time. Sure, I may enjoy hurting women for fun, but only when they’re into it too. That’s why I’m picky about my playmates, making sure they can handle what I dish out before we get naked. “And no mind-fucking either,” our president adds.
“I’ll do my best,” I reply when I get to my feet, already thinking of a million things I’ll need to do to actually pull this off. Holding out my palm, Malcolm gives me the piece of paper with the address for the chef. Let the fucking games begin!
“Give me…” I try and calculate how long everything will take…costume, housing, new vehicle. “Seventy-two hours; then report her missing.”
“Seventy-two?” Dev asks.
“Yeah, man. It’s going to take a little time to line shit up,” I tell him.
“You sure you can handle this?” Malcolm asks.
“Yep,” I answer. No matter what it takes, I’ll have to get it done – nab the redhead and keep her from testifying.
“All right then. Good luck. Stay in touch as much as possible,” Malcolm replies.
Shit. Is he gonna try and check up on me every goddamn day? I can’t have him breathing down my nec
k when I have to play a part. That means staying in character the entire time. “Might be tricky to reach out with what I have planned, but I’ll check in when I can,” I tell him to get him off my back.
Malcolm gives me his nod of agreement, and then I’m out of there before anyone starts demanding to know my plan or trying to change my mind. I’ve already started my mental list of shit to do. Now I’m going to do it.
The first thing on the list?
It’s high time to finally pay a visit to my dear old dad. Now is the perfect time. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, the day when I can finally make him pay for what he did, what he took from me.
Before, I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to take another man’s life. But after what went down at Cox’s house, it turned out that I had my father’s blood flowing through my veins all along. I’m a natural born killer. A monster. Pulling the trigger and watching the life drain out of those men’s eyes was the easiest thing I have ever done. The only part that rattled me wasn’t the lack of guilt, but the pleasure afterward. I liked being a murderous bastard. Loved it, actually. So much so that I could almost forgive my father for what he did.
The thing is, though, the men I ended deserved to die, while my father prefers to steal the lives of innocent women.
Chapter Three
Cora
* * *
Ever since the detectives had me come in to pick the murder suspect out of a lineup, I’ve had this feeling I’m being watched. A few days ago, I called and told Detective Rollins that someone in a purple Prius was following me to work and home. She actually laughed at me and told me I was just being paranoid. She said if a crew of thugs on motorcycles start following me, then she would be concerned.
I should’ve known those bastards wouldn’t give a shit about me or my safety now that I helped them make an arrest!
I haven’t seen the purple Prius recently, but I also haven’t left the house in three days. It’s not just that I’m scared. All the stress of getting pressured by the detectives, reliving that horrible night, seeing one of the men who killed someone in front of me, and fearing that his friends will come after me, it’s all made me physically ill! What started out as a bad cold turned into a raging ear infection. After several doses of antibiotics I can hear again, but still don’t feel like getting out of bed. Thankfully, the doctor also gave me some sleep aids and anxiety meds to try and stop my panic attacks after I admitted to being stressed due to the court case.
Even though I’ve started feeling a little better, I’m still wallowing, using my sickness to stay home and out of work. I know that, yet I can’t find the energy or willpower to get my ass up to leave the house or even move. I don’t have a clue what I should do. In fact, I was so distraught, that I called my absentee parents to ask their opinion on whether or not they thought I was safe or if I should pack up and leave town, only to be told I should stop watching so many crime dramas.
That’s actually more parental guidance than I ever received as a child. I was actually shocked that my mother took a minute out of her busy day to take my phone call. Granted, I had to call nine times in one hour before she picked up, but she could’ve easily just kept ignoring me.
What it all boils down to is that I don’t have the money to up and move right now. I’ve got a decent job at Donatello’s even though I still have a boss and have to follow a strict menu night after night. At least it pays well, and I get to live rent free in my parents’ unused beach house. That means more money is going toward the never-ending debt hanging over my head. So, if I have to suck it up and go back to work in a few days once I’m no longer coughing up a lung or going through a box of tissues an hour, I’ll just have to risk the chance of death by angry outlaws.
Grabbing an extra pillow to prop my head up higher so I can try to breathe through the nasal and chest congestion while I sleep, I flop around in bed for several minutes before finally finding a comfortable spot.
Which is the exact moment that somewhere in the house, glass shatters.
Oh shit!
My heart climbs into my throat, ready to pound its way out of my chest as I burrow deeper into the covers.
It’s not the best hiding spot, but where else can I go? Someone is outside, possibly trying to break into the house to get to me, just as I feared!
My cell phone is in the living room on the charger, which means I’m stranded. I’ll just have to wait until my killers come for me and drag me out of bed, or maybe just put a bullet in my head right where I’m lying down.
I’m shaking all over as I finally roll off the bed with my comforter and sheets around me like a burrito, as if they somehow make me bulletproof.
Scrambling on my bundled-up knees over to the closet, I quietly slip inside, wincing when the door creaks.
And there, sitting on my pairs of shoes, is where I hide out, praying the outlaws will go away and not kill me.
I hold my breath, listening for footsteps, but they never come. There’s not a sound in the entire house.
Not until the doorbell rings.
How sick can someone be? Ringing the door like they’re an expected guest when they want to murder me?
I never should’ve talked to the detectives. If I hadn’t, I would probably be sitting in a jail cell right now, but at least I wouldn’t be about to die!
The doorbell rings again, making me imagine them laughing their asses off behind their helmets as they terrify me even more before hurting me. Will they make it fast or drag it out, torturing me slowly?
A pounding starts on the door, the killers obviously growing impatient, ready to bust in and get this over with. Then, there’s a loud BOOM!
“Cora Walsh?” a gruff male voice call out from close by. “Ah, Miss Walsh, are you in here?”
Miss? What kind of a murderer refers to his victims so politely?
“You can come out now, Miss Walsh!”
Ha! There’s no way I’m falling for this trap. Nope. No way. I’m going to sit my ass right here until they give up and leave or find me.
A stupid, sudden sneeze makes the decision for me. It erupts before I can even try to hold it back.
And it’s loud.
So loud that the mild-mannered murderer obviously hears it. My bedroom light flips on, filtering in through the slants in the closet doors before it’s yanked open.
A tall, muscular man in a dark blue suit and white button down is then towering above me. His brown hair is shaved super short all over like he got buzzed by a military razor, looking oddly professional and not like a criminal outlaw at all despite the gun he’s holding next to his thigh.
The two of us stare at each other silently for several long seconds. His square, clean-shaven jaw is clenched tight as he slowly pulls out a wallet from his jacket with his left hand, flipping it open to show me the shiny badge inside. “I’m FBI Agent Sheppard. I’m assuming you’re Cora Walsh?”
FBI agent?
Ah! He’s here to save me!
“Oh thank god!” I exclaim as I scramble to my feet and out of my bedsheets to throw my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life.
“Jesus, you’re a mess,” he mutters, not even trying to hug me back.
“I’m sick,” I tell him through my congested nose as I let him go.
“With what? The plague?” he deadpans in his curt voice as he puts his gun into his holster and slips his badge back into his pocket.
“No, it’s just a cold and a little ear infection,” I reply with a dismissive wave of my hand. “So, um, not that I’m not glad to see you, obviously, but what’s going on? What are you doing here? Did Detective Ashby and Rollins send you?”
“Ah, yeah, they did,” he agrees as he straightens to attention like a good little soldier. “Usually the, um, US Marshall handles WITSEC, but I wanted to oversee this case firsthand. I’ve been staking out your house and your workplace for the past two days, keeping an eye on things.”
“You have? That’s so sweet,” I tell
him.
He clears his throat and goes on to say, “Tonight, a group of guys were throwing bricks through your window,” he says when he turns and starts walking back toward the living room. I grab my robe from the floor and throw it on as I hurry to keep up with him. “I tried to chase them down, but I didn’t want to leave you unprotected. So when they took off on bikes parked down the street, I made the decision to come back here to check on you, and, unfortunately, they got away.”
The curtains in the front windows are blowing, shards of glass littering the carpet.
Bending down, the agent picks up one of the two bricks that obviously caused the damage. He turns it over, grunting at the words before handing it to me.
I take it, turning it around to read what the red painted letters on it spell out.
“DIE BITCH.”
“I assume that death threat was meant for you,” the agent says.
“You think?” I mutter as I give the threatening message back to him and clutch the front of my robe together. “Unless one of my parents is also a witness to a bunch of murders, then I would assume it was for me. So, now what?” I ask, already mentally calculating how much it’s going to cost to repair the windows.
“I can keep you safe,” the agent tells me, sounding confident when he tosses the brick down. “But we’ll have to relocate you tonight, put you in witness protection.”
“Okay,” I say since having a big, strong guy like him protect me sounds like a great idea. “What does witness protection entail? You’re a federal agent; I thought it was only for federal cases.”
Stuffing his finger into the collar of his button up, he glances toward the windows and gives the collar a tug like it’s choking him. “Yeah, the, ah, local detectives are transferring the case to federal court since it involves the murder of a man known for dealing drugs through several states.”
