“Answer me, you son of a bitch,” Stone says. “Answer, or I’ll bury you up to your neck in this desert and let the crows pick the flesh from your bones.”
The old man grins, opens the door to his car, and sits himself down in the driver’s seat. With a gesture, he signals for his men to lower their weapons and get ready to leave. Car doors slam, engines start, and then Bowen Dale leans out the window, as casual as if he were talking to a friend on the sidewalk.
“You’re a businessman, Stone. I know that about you. That’s why your club’s done so well. I respect that. That’s why I’m going to give you a little incentive — protecting your club’s interests and protecting your family. Maybe once you’re you’re motivated, you’ll re-evaluate your decision.”
Tires chew dirt and engines roar as the two cars speed away, heading in the opposite direction of Lone Mesa. The old man’s threats are clear; my throat tightens and my blood fills with enough adrenaline to give me the kind of pre-combat rush I felt in Afghanistan.
Stone growls, getting on his bike and starting it.
“That son of a bitch is going after my family. We need to find them. Now.”
I hardly hear him over the pounding of my heart.
Addie’s in danger.
As my bike sends dirt and gravel flying as I speed out of the parking lot, all I can think about is getting to Adella.
Before Bowen Dale’s men get to her.
Before it’s too late.
Chapter Nine
Adella
“Get down, Addie,” my mom screams, reaching over from the driver's seat, putting her hand on the back of my head, and forcing my head down just a moment before a hail of gunfire rips into the SUV.
Bits of steel and broken glass pepper my body. I scream, but my screams drown among the roaring flood of bullets, the howl of the vehicle’s engine as my mother floors it, trying to gain distance on the men behind us.
More bullets, then a too-close crash as Razor hammers his pistol against the passenger window, shattering it so he can lean out and return fire. A second behind him, Trips does the same and my ears ring with the roar of a war zone.
I might be screaming, but I can’t tell.
The SUV wobbles, there’s a ka-thunk that sends me bouncing high in my seat as we jump the curb and plow through a mailbox in front of an abandoned refinery. We’re miles from home, miles from help, and, with every passing second, death draws closer.
Behind me, Ruby’s strident voice cuts through the maelstrom of bullets.
Turning my head, I glimpse her, with her head down, phone to her ear.
She smiles at me, reassuringly.
“Your father’s coming,” she shouts.
Then she reaches into her clutch purse and draws out a pistol, holding it in a tight grip. She doesn’t have a shot where she’s at — not unless she wants to sit up right where they can see her — but I know she’s ready. With a woman like Ruby, all she needs is the smallest opening to strike.
She smiles at me again. And winks.
It will be OK, that wink seems to say. Or at the very least we’ll give these bastards hell before we die.
There’s another car-shaking thump, followed by the shriek of steel and a spray of sparks that cascades in an arc behind us. The tire’s blown, we’re chewing up the rim and we’re still miles from home.
We’re not going to make it.
Another rat-tat-tat tears into our vehicle, answered only by several cracking shots from Razor and Trips that do nothing to stem the tide of bullets washing against us.
To my right, there’s another titanic burst and more sparks, some of which fly through the shattered passenger window and land on the back of my neck and in my hair, making me scream with their burning heat against my bare skin.
Another tire gone.
The SUV starts to slow. Distressing metallic screams come from the wheel wells.
“Stay down, Addie,” my mom yells in one of the brief intervals she takes as she raises her head enough to see over the dash. With a sharp jerk, she rights our course on the road and then turns to me, a fearful look on her face. “We’re not going to make it much further. Hold on. I’m going to try something.”
Suddenly, she slams her foot on the brake, sending a torrent of sparks raining down in front of us and, in a swift motion, she slams the SUV into reverse. Tires and steel rims shriek as we fly backwards, and that shriek is cut short in a moment as the SUV hammers into the front end of the car behind us.
The blow of the impact shakes me to my bones and sends me crashing into the front dash. My teeth clack shut, the copper taste of blood fills my mouth; I’ve bitten my tongue.
“Now, buddy,” Razor shouts to Trips, and they both throw open their doors and come out guns blazing, hoping to take advantage of the moment of surprise my mom’s bought us.
But the men behind us aren’t amateurs.
They’re ready.
The second Trips and Razor emerge and fire, the air fills with the rat-tat-tat retort of their automatic weapons. Trips screams — his blood splatters the door behind him and he staggers to the ground, clutching his shoulder, while blood gushes from between his clenched fingers.
Another round of rapidfire sends Razor sprawling to the ground seeking cover.
I duck back down.
My throat closing tight in fear, my senses overwhelmed with the smell of gunsmoke and the taste of my blood in my mouth.
I want to scream, but I can’t force my body to cooperate; mortal
