Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Holes in their security. No doubt Handlebar’s been assessing it from the beginning.
“A few small ones,” he says. “But they don’t open easy from inside. Maybe they’ll open up from outside.”
Asking if the cavalry will be coming. “I’m basically one of those rancid farts that leaves a trail of stink—a trail that’s real easy to follow. After they get a whiff of me in here, I figure they’ll open up those windows fast.”
Satisfaction gleams in the other man’s eyes. “You always have smelled like you’re full of bullshit.”
“And I call that my greatest natural talent.” Another talent is knowing when to pay attention—which I’ve been doing. While Handlebar and I are yapping, a shift change takes place to my right. Not in a cell, but a closed-up room. Security station, probably. Manned by only one guard.
To my left, past five more cells is another closed-up room. A guard stops in front of it—not carrying any weapons except a stun gun, seems like. I recognize that guard. The bastard who looks like a drill sergeant, the one Cherry called her boss. But that bastard isn’t a boss. Might be in charge here, but he’s not a boss, and that’s a real important distinction.
Drill Sergeant signals to one of the cameras and the door unlocks. The fucker’s carrying keys on a belt but there’s nothing to unlock on these doors except some restraints they’ve got set up on the bars. So it must be all automated and they need someone in that security station to open the cells.
And they’ve got a girl locked up behind there, wearing a wet dream of a nurse’s uniform. She doesn’t turn in this direction but heads straight down the aisle to another door. Drill Sergeant’s right on her ass, though he’s not looking at it. He’s scoping out the other guards on duty. I’ve already pegged them as militia—well-funded, by the look of them. Except for Drill Sergeant, though, I’d bet my left nut that none of them were in the service, and their training was most likely a souped-up, chest-thumping parody of real military training. The way Drill Sergeant’s eyeing them now suggests that he doesn’t one-hundred-percent trust them to be doing their jobs right.
Might not trust the nurse, either. When the next door unlocks, Drill Sergeant follows her in.
Cherry said she was a nurse. The woman I just saw didn’t have flame red hair down to her ass, but a light auburn that falls past her shoulders. Body sure looked like Cherry’s, though—all long legs, and not much in the way of curves. Her thighs and ass were still soft as hell, though. So were her lips.
I get a flash of—what the fuck, tossing a wig?—before the memory skitters out of reach. And a lingering image of Cherry looking up at me, mouth trembling and her emerald eyes filled with fear…and of me, feeling real fucking pissed off at her.
Because of something she said? Or because I figured out that she drugged me?
I can’t remember, goddammit.
“Stone.” Handlebar’s grave tone brings my gaze swinging back to him. “You got family?”
I know why he’s asking. It was damn near impossible to get straight answers out of the family members of the missing fighters, but their fear spoke for them. Some had merely been threatened. Others had gotten worse than threats.
So I wasn’t going to take that risk with my parents or sister. “Not that these fuckers will find. They’ll be looking for ghosts.”
My wallet held fake identification and nothing that links me to home. My kutte only tells them my road name and which club I belong to. But if they’re stupid enough to go asking the Riders about me…well, shit. I hope they do.
The other man nods, his face grim. “Best that way.”
It is Cherry. She comes out of the room carrying a tray, smile bright and hips swaying—and except for her facial features, in no way resembling the vulnerable, jittery woman I met at the tavern.
My chest tightens up. Because I liked that woman. What I’m seeing now, though, tells me that woman was nothing but pretend.
Maybe I’ll like this woman, too. Fuck knows I can’t take my eyes off her. She heads over to one of the cells on my side of the corridor, so I don’t have a good angle on her. Handlebar does, though.
“What’s the story with the girl?” I ask him.
“Cherry? She’s a fucking angel. Though she’s got claws, too.” Abruptly he grins, raising his voice. “Ain’t that right, Hush Puppy?”
Laughter comes from the other cells. Some fucker yells out, “I thought we agreed to call him ‘Donut Hole’?”
“My vote is still on ‘Falafel’!”
“I don’t give a fuck what you all call him. Fried balls are fried balls,” Handlebar says loud enough to carry, then settles down and focuses in on me again. “A few boxes to your right is Tusk, who’s the sickest fucker you’ve ever met. Watch your six around him. He pulped some poor bastard’s skull in the weight room, and I don’t ever want to know all of what he did to Lissa. But if I get a chance to kill him, I intend to kill him. I suggest you do the same.”