The angry young man just shrugs. “No witnesses here.”
Kit just rolls his eyes. I sit perfectly still, afraid that if I say anything, if I even breathe too loudly, I’ll be the one to tip the scales from “keep her alive” to “get rid of the problem.”
“There wouldn’t have been any witnesses on that deserted strip of road we found her on either; use your head.” With that, Kit hooks a second folding chair with his ankle and drags it closer, before sitting down across from me, completely unconcerned with the way the angry man is now glaring at him. His posture is relaxed, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, arms loosely crossed. He studies me again in silence.
“I believe you asked why you’re here,” he says finally.
I can only nod, not trusting my voice.
“You’re here, I’m afraid, because Viper has been a very naughty boy.” Kit’s voice is casual, as if we’re simply discussing the weather. “Tell me, Mrs. Sullivan, how well do you think you know your husband?”
“I—”
The angry young man is suddenly in my face, his eyes wild.
“You have no idea what Viper is,” he snarls, his face inches from mine. “You have no idea what he did!”
I press back as far in my chair as I can, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can see it jumping in my throat. Around us, the other men stop their conversations, all eyes turning to watch. Even Kit looks surprised, straightening in his chair.
“Hey,” he says sharply, standing and grabbing the young man’s shoulder. “She gets the idea. Viper bad. You can stop trying to give her a heart attack.”
He doesn’t move, still glaring down at me with a hatred I can’t begin to understand. “We should just kill her,” he says, the words barely more than a growl. “Blood for blood. That’s how we make things even.”
Kit’s hand tightens on Wrath’s shoulder. “Little D, listen—”
“WRATH!” the young man explodes, turning suddenly to get right in Kit’s face, so close their noses are almost touching. “My name is WRATH. Not Little D. Nobody gets to call me Little D!”
Kit doesn’t even blink. At first glance, he looks unconcerned, but I can see the tension in the way he holds himself, ready if this kid decides to throw a punch.
Wrath or Little D, or whatever his name is, is breathing hard, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The two of them face off for a long, tense moment where I’m half convinced I’m about to witness a murder, and then Kit’s face softens slightly.
“You know what?” he says. “You clearly need a snack. You want a sandwich?”
The words are so absurd I almost laugh, except I’m too terrified to make any sound at all.
Wrath’s jaw works as he wages some internal battle. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he takes a deep breath.
“I could eat a sandwich,” he mutters.
Kit claps him on the back, the sound startlingly loud in the tense silence. “Good man. And you can make me one too while you’re at it.”
For a second, I think Wrath is going to explode again, but then he snorts and turns away, stomping toward a door at the far end of the warehouse.
“And don’t forget the mustard this time!” Kit calls after him. For half a second he pauses and then continues on without acknowledgment.
As he goes, several of the other men start heckling him — “Hey kid! You making sandwiches? Make me one too! Extra mayo!” “No fucking pickles! We got any of that ham left?” — but he ignores them all, and finally Kit turns and gives them a look that could freeze hell itself. They stop talking immediately.
“If you all want a sandwich,” Kit says, his voice mild, “you can go help make them.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the other men file out, leaving just Kit, the man who’d untied me, and two others who stand by the far wall, clearly keeping watch. I watch the rest of them go, my mindracing. They’re all insane. This whole thing is insane. I’ve been kidnapped by a group of bikers, led by a man who looks like a fallen angel and acts like this is all some amusing game, and now they’re all just… going to go make sandwiches?
Kit turns back to me, sees my expression, and grins. “He’s a good kid,” he says, as if that explains anything. “I just have to keep him from committing the occasional murder. He’ll calm down after he’s eaten.”
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask again because I can’t think of anything else to say, and the question is burning a hole in my chest.
He looks at me as if I’m stupid. “Didn’t you just hear me telling the kid that we weren’t going to kill you? I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”
“Then why am I here?” The words come out sounding rather hysterical, fueled by the terror that’s been building since that first crash of glass.