“Didn’t know that yet, did you?” continued Donovan, his voice light. He could’ve been discussing the weather over a cup of warm coffee. “If it makes you feel better, it was an accident. We were only supposed to rough him up a bit, you know? Make sure that he wouldn’t spill his guts about the Raptors. But there is something so incredibly gratifying in making someone pay for their mistakes. O’Connor was an idiot to think he could take us on. In my opinion, he deserved a well-placed kick to the head. My superiors disagreed. Oh well. Shit happens, as they say.”
Bile rose at the back of Wes’s throat, but this time it wasn’t in response to his concussion. Donovan’s speech was more sickening than any illness Wes had ever experienced.
“Anyway,” Donovan went on, examining his fingernails, “you can have a little time to recuperate. I need you on full alert. Ah, speaking of which—”
Wickes had returned from the warehouse office, carrying a paper cup full of water, a bottle of painkillers, and a roll of duct tape. He knocked a few pills into the palm of his hand and offered them to Wes, but Wes turned his head away.
“Suit yourself, asshole,” said Wickes, tossing the pills to the ground. He knelt down with the duct tape, busying himself by taping each of Wes’s ankles to either leg of the chair. Wes watched him, his face impassive but his mind whirling. Wickes was beefier than Donovan, tall and muscled. He was clearly the brawn of Donovan’s operation. Even so, if Wes were fully functioning, he could have easily aimed a quick boot at Wickes’s face. As it was, Wes could barely see straight.
Donovan took another set of painkillers from the bottle. “Shit, McAllen, it’s just ibuprofen. Look.”
He showed the label of the bottle to Wes, then the pills, which were marked with the brand of the medication. It was a strangely reassuring gesture, one that made Wes wonder what the Raptors had in store for him if they required his unchallenged attention.
“Trust me. You’re going to want them. The back of your head looks like a damn eggplant, and your nose—I’d be surprised if you ever regain the ability to breathe through it again. ”
Donovan pinched Wes’s cheeks to open his mouth. Wes, his hands taped together behind the chair, had no way of fighting back. He allowed Donovan to tip the pills then a gulp of water into his mouth. He had to admit it: he couldn’t wait for the ibuprofen to kick in.
Wickes finished securing Wes to the chair and set the duct tape on top of the only other object in the vast, empty warehouse: a small, metal-plated storage trunk.
“Thanks, Wickes,” said Donovan. “You can head out.”
Wickes eyed Wes with displeasure. “All right, man. Call me if you need anything.”
They bumped fists as if they were everyday, run-of-the-mill Waverly fraternity brothers. Nothing defined brotherhood like a good, old-fashioned hostage situation. As Wickes saw himself out of the warehouse, Donovan took a seat on the storage trunk across from Wes.
“Where’s Nicole?” asked Wes in a hoarse voice.
Donovan grinned. “Honestly? No idea. Last time I saw her, she was tied to a chair in BRS’s clubhouse. Funny how things end up, isn’t it? Maybe later, you two can bond about the experience.”
Wes closed his eyes. He knew he should have gone after Nicole sooner. If he had, the two of them could’ve avoided this entire fiasco.
“Relax, McAllen,” said Donovan, correctly reading the look on Wes’s face. “Last I heard, your girlfriend made one hell of an escape. She knocked out her guard and snuck past the entire damn society.”
Relief flooded through Wes, but it was short-lived. For all he knew, everything that came out of Donovan’s mouth was an outright lie. For Nicole’s sake, he hoped Donovan’s story was true.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. There was no chance of sounding assertive. The concussion, even if its effects had somewhat receded, weighed down Wes’s tongue. His speech was heavy and slurred.
“That remains to be seen,” said Donovan. He stood up from the trunk to circle around Wes. “See, from what I know, Nicole loves to share everything with you. You know about the Raptors, the clubhouse, O’Connor, and what we’ve done, among other things. I assume you know a lot about Nicole too.”
“Normal and sane people are like that,” intoned Wes. “People in relationships share things with each other, especially if they have knowledge that might keep the other person safe.”
“Precisely,” agreed Donovan, still leisurely pacing around Wes. “I’ll ignore the jibe about normal people for now, and I can assure you that I’m perfectly sane. My father paid off my childhood psychologist to prove it.” He bared his teeth in a wicked grin. “But back to the knowledge you share with your cherished mavourneen. I assume you know what happened to Nicole’s parents?”
“What do Nicole’s parents have to do with anything?”
Donovan paused in front of Wes, planting his hands on either armrest of the chair, and lowered himself to Wes’s eye level.
“Everything, Officer McAllen. Everything.”
13
I left Jo at the storage facility with the recommendation that she should stay out of the Raptors’ business, get out of town, and never look back. There wasn’t much of a chance she would take my advice—Jo had been screwed over by the Black Raptor Society more times than I could count—but the last thing I needed was for someone else to get hurt, kidnapped, or killed because I had decided to give the Raptors a run for their money. I had enough on my plate to feel guilty about already. Jo was young, roughly the same age as Lauren, and it wasn’t fair that either one of them had to deal with things that no one should ever have to deal with. Like murder. Jo deserved a normal life, and she couldn’t have one if she kept wrapping herself up with the Raptors.
As I idled in
