“But somewhere that isn’t their clubhouse. Their clubhouse is basically in the middle of Austin, right?”

  Slug nods.

  “Well, when I was on the phone with Brose he put me on loudspeaker and I heard a whole lot of nothing and a little bit of wind. They ain’t in the city, which means they’re in the middle of nowhere. West, north, south? Fuckin’ Mexico, what? Where are they? I don’t know what time my girl left my apartment, so I don’t know how long they’ve had her. So where would they take her, Slug? Think now. You might’ve overheard something. You might remember something. Come on.”

  Slug tugs at his leather vest and takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking, boss,” he says quietly. He rocks back on his heels. “I’m trying to think. I ... They mentioned a warehouse once. They called it the Lonely Warehouse, and when I asked why, they said it was on account of how there was nothing around it.”

  “The Lonely Warehouse?” Lion laughs. “What are these, bikers or poets?” The men laugh with him.

  I ignore them. “Where is this warehouse, Slug?”

  “I’ve been there.” He smiles vaguely. It’s always difficult to read what Slug is thinking. Sometimes I have my doubts about sending him in as a spy, but that ship’s sailed now. He’s in there, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. Anyway, he’s Lion’s girlfriend’s uncle’s high school friend or some shit. But even Lion doesn’t seem to like him all that much. “I can give you directions and draw a map of what it’s like inside—or what I remember, anyway.”

  “Do it. Somebody get him a pen and paper.”

  “Uh, boss,” Slug says. “There’s one right there.” He nods to the desk. He’s right; there’s a pen and paper right in front of my face.

  “Okay.” I push them across. “Get to work.”

  We wait in silence as Slug starts writing. He’s sweating like crazy. I’m guessing it’s as much from the nerves as it is from the heat. Having an office full of men eager to get on their bikes and go to war waiting on you can’t feel too comfortable. When he’s finally done, I snatch the paper away from him. On one side he’s written out directions that lead west on I-10 and then turns onto a dirt road, and on the other he’s drawn a crude layout.

  “Okay,” I say. “You can go—”

  “Boss.” It’s Lion.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “All right.” I wave a hand. The room clears immediately. “What is it?”

  “I think Slug should come with us,” he says. “I’ve got a feeling. I ain’t got any evidence or nothing but the way he’s looking, all shifty. I don’t know. It’s an instinct, is all.”

  “What about his connection to you?” I ask. “Your girl’s uncle, or your girl’s uncle’s friend or some shit?”

  “She ain’t my girl anymore,” Lion says. “Broke it off randomly. No warning. No sign things were heading that way.”

  “So maybe ...”

  We meet eyes. We both have the same thought.

  “Then bring him along,” I say, standing up. “We lose nothing by bringing him anyway.”

  “That’s my thinking exactly,” Lion says. I’m at the door when he says, “One more thing.”

  “What is it?” I ask, half turning.

  Lion paces across the room to me. His mane of blond hair falls across his eyes. “You’re all keyed up, boss,” he says, looking at me solidly. “I’ve only ever seen you like this once before, when Markus was ...” He stops when he sees my expression. “I’ve only ever seen you like this then. I know you must care about this girl if you’re lookin’ like this, but what gets is me we’ve never heard of her.”

  “Why should you?” I say, voice harsher than I intend. “She’s my girl.”

  “All right.” Lion holds his hands up. “Then as your VP I need to tell you to keep your head in the game. This is a big operation we’re going on here. We’re basically starting a war. The men need their president now more than ever. So if you really wanna save this girl, you need to calm down.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. And yet all I can think about is Selena tied up someplace, bleeding and crying with Brose standing over her, standing there like he owns her just like he owns everything else, standing there like he can do any damn thing he wants and never get a reckoning. Standing there like I’m not a man with fire in his heart for what he did to me.

  “Don’t ever give me an order again,” I say, voice ice cold. “We’re moving out.”

  Chapter Seven

  Selena

  “I wouldn’t mind bouncing those around,” one of the men says, handling me roughly as he secures me to the dripping rusty pipe.

  “You can always tell the whores from the way they moan,” the second man replies. “Listen to the way she moans here.” He tugs on the rope harshly, making me moan in pain. Then he ties me securely to the pipe, linking cuffs with the other man so that my arms are completely secured. “See,” he goes on. “She fuckin’ loves it. Don’t you, sweetheart?” He brings his face close to mine. He reeks of marijuana and whisky, his teeth stained yellow and most of them missing anyhow. “I asked you a question, little lamb.”

  “Please,” I whisper. “I just want to go home—”

  “It’s a shame we can’t play with you none,” the man says, smiling. “I can think of a hundred things I’d like to do to you right this second. Are you a real whore? You look like a real whore.”

  On impulse, I spit. I spit hard, and forcefully, right into the man’s sneering face.

  He leaps back and wipes at his face with his sleeve, and then jumps at me and grabs my neck. He hocks, and then makes as if to spit back at me.

  “Wait a second,” I say, voice rasping. “Didn’t you say you’re not allowed to play with me?”

  “She’s right,” the other man whispers. “If we hurt her, the boss’ll freak.”

  He digs his fingernails into my throat, staring at me with eyes which want to do damage, and then sighs and stands up. “She’ll get what’s coming to her,” he says. “These whores always do.”

  They leave me, slamming the door behind them. I let out a pent-up breath once the men are gone. I don’t know what got into me there. My rebellious spirit, the one ignited with Clint, I suppose. But it was dangerous and stupid, a pointless risk. What if he didn’t care about his boss’s instructions? What if he hurt me anyway? I let my head rest against the wall, closing my eyes. Fear assails me every second, my heartbeat showing no sign of slowing down, tears constantly threatening to pour down my cheeks.

  I open my eyes and look around the room. It’s lit with a naked bulb which hangs from a wire. The room was once a bathroom but all the fixtures have been violently removed, along with some of the wall tiles so that I can see the pipes and the in-between space. I try and pull on the pipe but I’m too weak. I feel tired from last night and my belly’s growling urgently for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner ... I realize I have no idea what time it is.

  I decide to try and calm down. If I can’t get free, then at least I can try and approach this coldly. The last thing I need to do in this situation is let my emotions run away with me. I know all too well how crippling emotions can be. I know all too well how they can turn a person into less than a person, into a sniveling wreck without the semblance of a backbone. I need to be strong, I tell myself. But telling myself doesn’t work. I’m still on the brink of tears and my heartbeat is still hurting my ribs.

  I close my eyes and envision a scene. I see me and Dante sitting on a porch in sunlight which could never exist in real life, because this sunlight is brighter than any earth-bound light. It’s heavenly sunlight, the sort which exists only in fantasies. We’re sitting in rocking chairs—yes, the steady rhythm soothing us—and in my arms I’m holding a bundle of life. Boy or girl? Girl, I decide on instinct. The baby is a girl, and for miles and miles around there’s nothing. All is peaceful. We’re alone and safe and warm and happy. I kiss the girl on the forehead and whisper, “Hello, Jasmin. How’d’you do?”

  Dante leans over and gives her a kiss of his own. It’s difficult to visualize every detail of Dante because I’ve known him for such a short amount of time, but I can visualize most of him, and I find that he’s the most peaceful part of the fantasy. I watch this man I don’t truly know and my heartbeat slows and the tears recede. I lose myself in the dream, smiling and taking slow, measured breaths. Once I’ve calmed down, I open my eyes.

  The room hasn’t changed, but I’m able to look at it with fresh eyes. The door is thin, flimsy, and doesn’t look like it’s meant for that frame. It’s wooden and jammed in at an unnatural angle. I think a few good kicks could take it off its hinges. I’m glad I’m not a skinny girl; my legs could do some work on that door. Then I look at the pipe again. The pipe itself is solid, but the screws which hold the pipe to the wall are exposed and brown with rust.

  I stretch across, ignoring the way the handcuffs bite into my wrists, and try to bring my mouth to the screws. The thought of putting them in my mouth sickens me, but the thought of being killed or raped sickens me more. And though I want to be with Dante again—I know that without even having to think about it—I can’t trust that he’ll ride in and save me. I’ve lived too long with violence and pain to believe in fairytales.

  I stretch for a few minutes, chafing my wrists raw, before finding the right angle. When I bite down on the rusty screw I want to be sick. I fight the urge and grip it with my teeth, and then twist my neck around to turn the screw. Any other screw and my teeth would slide off, but here I find grip in the rust. Flakes of rust scrape away and land in my mouth, the taste of metal filling me. But I keep on, twisting, twisting. Slowly the screw starts to loosen.

  I go at it for five minutes and then footsteps pound down the hallway outside my door. Leaning back quickly, I spit on the floor to get rid of the rust taste, and then resume my previous position. The screw isn’t loose yet, only nearly. If they notice ... But I can’t look shifty or suspicious. I have to appear as what they expect to see: a terrified woman.

  When the door opens and the men step in, it isn’t difficult to appear terrified. All my hard-earned calm drifts away. I hear myself sobbing and moaning and begging as they uncuff me from the pipe and drag me to my feet. They’re going to rape me. They’re going to destroy me. I kick out but they grab me and hold me firmly, five men in total, carrying me like a ragdoll through narrow hallways.

  They drag me through into a room I do not expect to find in this damp, dingy place. There’s a large, presidential-style desk in the middle with a comfy armchair sitting on one side. The walls are wallpapered and covered with art paintings: most scenes of valleys and rivers and forests. A red lamp lights the room from the corner, and the air smells faintly of orange peel. The only thing which ruins the effect is the metal chair on the other side of the desk, which the men take me to. They cuff my hands behind my back and my legs to each chair leg and then step away to the walls, watching silently.

  I suppose I have been this scared before, perhaps when Clint held a knife to my throat or held me over the staircase and screamed at me that he’d throw me down. But just because I’ve faced fear, it doesn’t lessen its effects. That’s the biggest fallacy I ever read or hear about people who have felt extreme terror. Maybe for some people it hardens them like blacksmith’s metals. But I know what this fear can lead to, and I’ll do anything to escape it.

  “What do you want from me?” I say, turning around and looking at the closest man.

  He stares at me blankly.

  I look to another. “What do you want?” I plead. “Tell me. Just tell me!” I fight back tears, fail, and then cry pitifully. I hate myself for weeping in front of these men. “Just tell me!”

  “You better stop talking,” a man behind me hisses.

  “Shut up!”

  “What?” the man snaps. “She’s getting on my nerves.”

  “Wait for the boss.”

  “Is he ever coming?”

  “What, you’re a big tough guy now? You’re going to badmouth the boss?”

  “I certainly hope not.” The man who enters looks completely out of place. The other men are gruff and rough-looking, the sort of men who hang around on street corners catcalling women. This man wears a dark red suit with a purple tie, holding a silver wolf-pommel cane, his shoes so shiny they reflect the light. His goatee is meticulously crafted and his bald head is slick, as if polished. And then he places an old-style gangster hat on his head, as blood-red as his suit. He’s around fifty years old. He reads my expression, and then laughs. “Yes, I understand, my dear. It’s a shock, isn’t it?”

  “I ...” I close my mouth. I don’t know what to say.

  He laughs again, and then drops into the giant armchair. He folds his legs and taps his cane against the desk. Tap-tap-tap, a constant backdrop to our conversation. “You appear surprised,” he says. “You expected some big ape of a man with tattoos covering his eyes or some such thing.”

  “I didn’t know what to expect,” I say quietly. Surely I can reason with this man. He’s different from the others. He’s not an animal. Surely he won’t let these men hurt me. But then, he is here in this horrid place.

  “And now what do you think?” He waves a hand at himself. His fingernails are manicured. “Are you impressed?”

  “You don’t wear a patch,” I mutter.

  He grins. “Oh, but I do.” He shows me his cufflinks. Some ghost-type figure and the tiny words Chosen Wraiths are engraved into the metal. It hurts my eyes reading them. “I’m not a big fan of leather, you see.”

  I keep expecting one of the tough men behind me to leap forward and beat this man up and take his position. I can’t imagine them enjoying serving under this man. If they are anything what they seem like—ignorant, mean men—then surely they hate this flamboyant man. And yet they stand there, statue-still and statue-quiet, watching.

  “I’m afraid we can’t chat all day, dear,” he says. “My name is the Gentleman; that is how you will address me if you have need to use my name. Anyway,” and he waves a manicured hand, “I want to know about Dante. He’s been a pain in my side for a number of years now. Men like Dante never know how to respect their betters. They’re always reaching, you understand? Never content. I suppose I admire it. I didn’t get to where I am by staying still. But if he’s reaching for my position, what does he expect me to do? So tell me about him. Where does he hold his meetings? Who does he meet with? Does he have any secret safe houses we won’t know about? Well, come on.”

  “I ...” My mouth is dry. I don’t know what to say. I know nothing about Dante’s business. I didn’t even know he was a part of any of this before today. I didn’t even know him before last night.

  “Well?” Suddenly the Gentleman leaps to his feet and walks around the desk, tapping his cane against the floor. He leans down close to me. This close, I can see that two of his back teeth are plated gold. “You are obviously curious why these men follow me. Look at them. Strong men, lethal men, powerful men. And they follow me? I can see the confusion in your eyes; I am very good at reading eyes, girl. I won’t tell you why except to say that these are the sort of men who wouldn’t follow a man who hasn’t done what they’ve done, or much worse. Do you understand?” He leans forward, bringing his face close to mine, his breath brushing against me. “I will shove this cane up your tight—” He cuts short, returning to his chair. But he doesn’t sit down, just stands near it. “The next time I question you, you better have some answers. Or you might discover that even the Gentleman isn’t always a gentleman.”

  He paces from the room. The tapping of his cane echoes down the hallway.

  The men take off my handcuffs and carry me down the hallway again. I’m worried they’ll chain me to a different pipe—there are many exposed—but they cuff me to the same two pipes. The men are about to leave when one kneels down. It’s the one whose face I spit in.

  “Stupid slut,” he whispers, and then hocks and spits right into my eye.

  I just manage to close my eyes in time, but there’s nothing I can do but let it drip down my face.

  Once the door is shut, I lean across to the screw and grip it with my teeth.

  Chapter Eight

  Dante

  We ride down I-10, a convoy of bikes kicking up dust as we weave between the traffic. I never feel so focused as I do on the hunt. Lion rides beside me and Timmy on the other side. We’re going to war and I feel ready. I see Selena in front of me in the road, beckoning to me, naked, with her hair pooling around her. She’s waving at me with her fingers, pursing her lips, and then the image shifts and she’s fully-clothed and holding a baby in her arms. Strange, because I never wanted a baby. That was Markus’s thing, always going on about making a family and starting a life.

  I remember sitting in the bar with him one winter night when it was pitch-dark outside. He was sipping whisky and droplets clung to his beer. “I’d love to have a kid, and a wife, and a house, and—and all of that.” He smiled, and then shrugged. “Does that sound stupid?”

  “Yes, it does,” I said, grinning at him. “It’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. What’d’you want a kid for? You going to teach him how to handle a pistol?”

  “Maybe, or how to ride a bike.”

  “Motorized or human-powered?”

  “Either. What does that matter?”

  “Just had an image of you putting a toddler on a Harley is all.”

  We both laughed, and then Markus grew serious. “But really. Don’t you ever think about a normal life?”

  “And what does a normal life look like for men like us?” I asked.

  “Well ...” He paused, considering. After a sip of whisky he said, “I reckon a normal life for us looks exactly the same as it does for everybody else. At least I don’t see why it shouldn’t. We’re men, aren’t we? Just like everybody else.”

  “Dad never wanted a normal life,” I say.