“That is one big beautiful bitch,” Top said to Dillon. The club president even smiled at her as he folded his hands over his stomach, like they were just two people shootin’ the shit. “Don't often see a Doberman that size. She purebred?”
“No,” Dillon answered, clearly not willing to elaborate further. Her fingers dug deep into the beast's hide, but neither she nor the dog seemed inclined to relax.
“How'd Ghost get past her?” Top asked patiently, too patiently. There was no sense of urgency to his questions whatsoever.
The audio on the cameras picked up the thick swallow Dillon gave before hoarsely answering.
“You call him Ghost?”
“It's what his people call him, but it's appropriate,” Top replied.
“So far as we can tell, he has no identity, can slip in and out of buildings like he's made of smoke, follow targets without being seen, and leaves bodies in his wake without so much as a molecule of himself behind.”
When Top fell quiet, Dillon seemed to remember he'd asked her a question.
“He told me he broke into my house while I was out on errands and drugged Elka's dog food. I had a glass of wine before bed, the bottle was open in the fridge. He must have drugged that too, because I didn't hear him come in my room or feel the needle.”
She pushed the sleeve of her sweatshirt up to show Top the red mark in the crook of her elbow.
“When I came to, he was leaning over me with a bright light shining in my face. I couldn't see anything but his shadow and the knife in his hand.
"I thought he was going to rape me before he started cutting into me, but other than terrifying me, he was... polite.”
Nasa listened to the details of Ghost’s attack, each one wrenching his heart in a familiar way. His guts writhed like snakes as he imagined Ghost leaning over Dillon as she slept, visions of the crime scene photos of what the sick sonofabitch had done to Susan and Pike superimposed now on Dillon.
Instead of seeing Susan's butchered body and sightlessly staring eyes, Nasa pictured Dillon lying there, staring at nothing, her beautiful face splattered with blood, twisted and frozen in terrible pain.
Nasa watched Dillon's already fair skin turn almost gray with fear, her eyes went glassy as she relived the terrifying moments she'd spent thinking she was going to be violated and murdered.
Right as Nasa thought she was a breath away from snapping, her enormous dog turned around and lifted her muzzle to Dillon's shoulder.
“That's not just a protection dog. It's a service dog with some kind of emotional support training,” Raid commented thoughtfully.
Roar garbled out a completely unidentifiable question around his current mouthful of popcorn.
Raid grunted in disgust. “Chew with your mouth closed, you sick bastard.”
Roar gave Raid the finger and swallowed his food. “I said, how do you know?”
“Athena volunteers at the pitbull rescues around town,” Raid told them all, rubbing his hand back and forth over his short beard while he studied the interaction between Dillon and her dog.
“She's started helping the handlers evaluate the dogs as potential service animals for kids with special needs.
“Watches videos and training info all the damn time. It's hard not to pick shit up. I remember her going all woobsy over some video of a kid having a massivepanic attack and her service dog practically plastering the kid to the floor to help calm her down. Like that.”
Raid gestured at the screen where they were all raptly watching Dillon struggling to keep herself from hyperventilating.
It didn't take her long to calm, but Nasa found himself wildly disturbed. The vibrant, beautiful woman on his screen held onto her dog like it was the only friend she had in the world.
Was that the case?
More importantly, why did it matter to him?
“Bet James Bond never needed an emotional support attack dog,” Roar mused.
Saint gave an exasperated sigh. “Dude, James Bond isn't a real person.”
“I know that, fucker,” Roar fired back. “I'm just sayin'.”
“You have any idea where you crossed paths with a biker gang that runs drugs, weapons, and deals heavily in human trafficking?” Top asked in his blunt manner, urging Nasa to loudly shush the rising argument brewing behind him about spies in the movies versus reality.
Dillon froze in the process of rubbing her cheek against her dog's slick, shiny coat. An expression of horror twisted across her face.
There and gone so fast, if he hadn't been focused on her face, Nasa would have missed it.
“No. I live an extremely low-risk life and don't go into town, except to meet clients. I flip homes and turn them into safe-houses.
"Until today, I certainly haven't socialized with any biker gangs, and I would honestly rather die than stay here.”
Nasa shot off a furious text to Top, insisting he refuse to let Dillon go anywhere, but Top didn't even twitch as it went off in his pocket.
“How'd you get all them scars?” Top asked casually, rocking back in his seat. Leather creaked as Nasa and the rest of the brothers leaned forward, closer to the monitors to hear Dillon's answer.
An angry flush painted her cheeks red, and up went her chin. “My scars are my business. I'm ready to leave now.”
Top gave a thoughtful sound, and a slight shake of his head. “I know you've had a helluva bad day, darlin', but I don't think you appreciate the enormity of the trouble you're in.”
Sparks practically flew from Dillon’s eyes as she narrowed them at Top.
“What part do you feel I don’t appreciate? The one where a man broke into my home, drugged me, and went into intricate detail of how he planned to murder me if I disobeyed him?”
Nasa winced in sympathy for Top, imagining if the old man had used that tone on Ever. Despite Dillon’s lack of fiery red hair, it seemed to be getting the
