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)
I’m still reeling between rage and despair as Victor ushers me toward the Ponderosa tavern, where my target is supposed to be drinking. The streets are lined with parked motorcycles. There must be thousands of them. And thousands of bikers, too, crowding the sidewalks of this small town. Every restaurant and bar we pass is packed to the rafters and with dozens more milling around outside the entrances. Desperately my gaze searches so many faces, young and old, bearded and shaved—and their women, so many women with them—but don’t know if I can trust any of them. They can’t all be outlaw motorcycle clubs but how can anyone tell the difference? If there’s a secret, Matt didn’t tell me what it was.
But there must be someone who can help me. I know there are good people in the world. I just need one person who’ll stand up for what’s right.
Just one.
Victor’s fingers tighten on my arm. “You make one wrong move, I’ll shoot your brother myself.”
My shocked gaze flies to his.
“You think I can’t see the resemblance?” A grim smile twists his mouth. “So you just do what you’re told. You deviate from your orders, first I’ll kill you, then I’ll kill him. And I’ll bring this guy back to the Cage anyway.”
Wordlessly I nod again, my throat a solid aching lump of pain and fear, my breath wheezing too hard to work up a scream—if a scream would even make a difference. The noise inside the bar is deafening, with the Black Keys competing with a crowd of people shouting to be overheard. I don’t know how they expect me to find anyone in here. But I have to, if I want to save Matt.
To save my brother, to save myself…I have to lure a man to his death.
Because that’s what the Cage is. Even if he wins once, he’ll have to win again and again to survive—each time, killing someone else.
That blood will be on my hands.
I can tell myself that it’s not. That this is all because of Papa and Victor and the Iron Blood and a corrupt sheriff. That they’re all trading lives for their own greed and self-interest. I’d be trading a life for a life—and I was given little choice.
But I have been given a choice. And the choice isn’t between Matt’s life and this man’s life. I know that. Victor’s full of shit. Handlebar killed a guard and suffered no consequences. Tusk killed Lissa and I was the only one who did anything to him. Whatever I do here, Victor won’t touch Matt. My brother’s too valuable.
I’m not. So if I sacrifice this man, I’m really sacrificing him to save myself. Then what will change? Nothing. Matt will still have to fight in the next Cage round and might die anyway. Soon enough, Tusk will rape me and probably kill me. And this guy will likely die in the Cage, too.
I might be able to change that, though. Because I’ve been desperate to find one decent person to help, to stand up for what’s right…
And that person will have to be me.
“There he is!” Victor has to raise his voice over the din. “Up at the bar!”
I still can’t see him through the crush of people. I can’t even see past the person in front of me. But the decision I’ve made settles into my very soul, steadying my nerves.
Tonight I’ll probably die. But before I do, I’ll warn this man and make certain Victor and the Iron Blood can’t touch him. Then, somehow, I’ll slip away from Victor through the crowd. Maybe just long enough to borrow a phone or beg someone to send a message to Matt’s boss.
Maybe I’ll find some way to tell my brother I love him, one more time. To tell him this was my choice.
But I think he’ll know.
“I’ll be listening!” Victor reminds me one more time, then gives me a little shove.
I stumble forward only half a step before jamming up against the back of another biker who’s as wide as he is tall. Not my target. The crowd around the bar is about six or seven people deep, everyone shouting at each other and at the bartender, trying to get his attention. I force my way between two gray-bearded bikers who smell like whiskey and smoke, and swing an elbow when one of them gropes my ass.
And there’s my target, even bigger in person than he appeared on the video. I get a quick glance of the Hellfire Riders written above an emblem of fiery wheels as he turns away from the bar, tucking a wallet on a chain into his front pocket—but if he managed to buy a beer, it’s not in his hand.
Good. The plan is to roofie his drink. So if he doesn’t have one yet, that gives me a little more time.