It took two attempts for Dillon to find her voice, so terrified she had to curl her fingers in Elka's collar, lest the dog react without Dillon's direction.
“No, I'm not lost. I need to speak with Nasa.”
The man frowned at her in confusion and tilted his head enough to make his dark hair swing down along the side of his face. He gave her an insultingly long look, his gaze momentarily caught at her midsection.
“You pregnant or something?”
Dillon couldn't help but wonder what kind of womanizer Nasa was for his friend to ask her that.
“What? No! It's an emergency. Is he here or not?”
The scarred man opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the arrival an older man with a glorious mane of silver hair, salted with stripes of fading black, and a beard to match.
He brought the clean scent of pipe tobacco and Old Spice with him, exuding an aura of commanding calm that on any other day might have made Dillon feel at ease.
He raked his vibrant gaze over her just like the other guy, touching on the death grip she had on Elka's collar, Dillon's hastily donned outfit of cutoff shorts, and the zip-up hoodie she'd thrown on over her bra, to the worn sneakers on her feet, then back up in a lightning fast flick.
“Problem, Pen?” His voice was a deep rasp, roughened with what Dillon assumed was a lifelong habit of smoking.
“Not sure, Top. This lady wants to see Nasa. Says it’s an emergency,” Pen, the scarred biker, responded.
The older man's piercing blue eyes dropped to her belly and, with a testy little growl, Dillon repeated the answer to his unasked question.
“I'm not fucking pregnant. A man broke into my house last night, drugged my dog, and threatened to kill me if I didn't deliver a message to this address, directly to someone named Nasa.”
Whatever it was the older man heard in her voice or saw in her expression made him take her seriously. He gave a jerk of his chin and waved her forward.
“Alright. Come inside.”
Dillon's knees wobbled at the idea of walking into a den of men who associated with serial killers, but her voice was firm. “I'm fine right where I am, thanks.”
If he noticed the renewed surge of adrenaline and fear, Top didn't point it out. He did smile and give her a dry, semi-sarcastic reply, though.
“If you want to talk to Nasa, you'll have to come inside. He's got eyes on us right now, but he won't come out here unless he's got no choice. Nasa has a thing about being out in the open.”
Following the wave of Top's hand, Dillon saw there were about a dozen cameras with a clear line of sight to where she stood.
The urge to let rage replace the fear coursing through her was intense. As strong, or maybe stronger than the desire to turn around and get the hell out of here, but getting in the truck and driving off wasn't an option.
He had been very clear. Dillon was to follow his instructions to the letter or suffer the consequences.
He hadn't said she had to deliver the message face to face, and if Nasa was watching, Dillon figured it was good enough. So, she let go of Elka's collar, glad when the men in front of her all took a step back, and unzipped her sweatshirt.
Later, she would remember how quickly the rest of the bikers descended upon her, forming a protective half-circle beside their leader.
It was that need to be angry versus terrified that had her defiantly throwing the sweatshirt on the ground, standing there with her shoulders back despite the way she trembled, letting everyone get a nice long look at what was written in bold black ink across her chest and belly.
Dear Nasa,
Stop searching for my little bird, or you'll have more than one Ghost haunting you.
It was a message Dillon would never forget, and now that it was delivered, now that the eyes of twenty men were glued to her chest in a less than flattering fashion, she considered her task finished.
She didn't even think about retrieving her sweatshirt, or care that all the strangers behind her would see the twisted lattice of ugly scars across her back as she spun on her heel and ordered Elka to watch her back.
It was a neat trick the dog trainer and Dillon had worked on for months, and one Dillon never truly appreciated until this moment.
Dillon's command of, “Shest” urged Elka to face the men behind her and walk backward at Dillon's thigh, while Dillon walked away toward her truck. Joshua assured her anyone considering coming up behind her with Elka facing them would think twice.
Dillon heard a door bang open behind her, and every muscle in her body tensed in preparation to whip around and face the threat, but she didn't have a gun.
All she had was Elka, and once the dog left her side, Dillon was open to attack. She couldn't stop. She had to get to the truck and get the hell out of here, fast.
Heart banging against her ribs so hard it hurt, Dillon made it all of ten feet before the phone shoved in her back pocket started to croak like a frog.
One trill was all it took to douse the fury licking at her flesh in a numbing rush of fear.
For whatever reason, that was the ringtone the shadowy man programed into her phone, and with her gaze bouncing around the wide-open space like a rubber ball, looking for the shine of a sniper scope, it took her three attempts to get her shaking thumb to move across the screen so she could answer.
“Yes?” she whispered, unable to speak any louder. Elka went nuts at her hip, barking out a rapid-fire warning to whoever was coming up behind her. Dillon didn't turn around. She couldn't. Not even
