“Shut up!” he snaps, giving Molly a little shake that draws a slight cry from her as he yanks harder on her hair. “Just walk to the fence. Now.”
I continue backing up, my eyes darting between David’s face and Molly. She’s pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, a muscle in her jaw twitching now and then.
“Dragon will kill you for this you know,” Molly suddenly spits out.
David shakes her roughly, pressing the gun harder against her temple. “I said shut up, both of you. One more word and I swear to God—”
The back door of the clubhouse swings open with a metallic creak. I freeze, my blood turning to ice.
“Kayla?” Gunner’s deep voice calls out, sounding confused. “Molly? Did you find—”
Time slows to a crawl. Gunner’s eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him: me with my hands raised, Molly with a gun to her head, David’s wild-eyed panic. In one fluid motion, Gunner’s hand moves to his hip, fingers wrapping around the grip of his gun.
But David is faster.
The sound isn’t what I expect. There’s no deafening bang, just a muted thwack-thwack as the suppressor does its job. Two dark circles bloom on Gunner’s chest like roses unfurling in fast motion. He looks down at them with an expression of mild surprise, as if he’s spilled something on his shirt at dinner.
“Oh,” he says softly, the single syllable carrying a world of understanding and regret. Then his legs fold beneath him, and he slumps backward against the doorframe, sliding down until he’s sitting, his head lolling forward.
Everything inside me rebels at once. My stomach heaves, acid burning the back of my throat. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit. I can’t fall apart now. Not when Molly and I are still in danger.
“Gunner?” I whisper, unable to look away from his motionless form. Is he breathing? I can’t tell from here. Could someone inside have heard? The suppressor and normal noise levels of the club make it unlikely, however.
“Fuck! Fuck!” David is muttering now, his eyes even wilder than before. The gun wavers slightly against Molly’s temple as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he says to Gunner’s crumpled form. “This wasn’t — fuck!”
Something has shifted. David’s planned, controlled operation is unraveling. The tremor in his hand, the sweat now pouring down his face, the high-pitched edge to his voice; he’s panicking. And a panicking man with a gun is more dangerous than a calculated one.
“David,” I say his name again, keeping my voice low and steady despite the scream building in my chest. “Let’s just stay calm, okay? No one else needs to get hurt.”
His eyes snap to mine, suddenly focused again. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarls. He gestures toward the large stainless steel grill positioned near the fence with the barrel of his gun. “Get over there. Climb up and over. Now.”
I move quickly, afraid any hesitation might push him over the edge. The grill is slick under my hands as I clamber on top of it, the metal warm from the sun. Standing on the grill, I’m tall enough to grip the top of the wooden fence. I haul myself up, muscles straining, until I’m sitting astride the fence, looking down at the eight-foot drop on the other side.
This is my chance. The moment I drop down, I could run. David can’t shoot me and hold Molly at the same time. Maybe I could find help, call 911, get someone back here for Gunner—
My hopes evaporate the instant I see what’s waiting on the other side of the fence. Two men in leather cuts with the Devil’s Rejects patch stand below, faces tilted up toward me, hungry anticipation in their eyes. The taller one flashes me a smile that makes my skin crawl.
I hesitate, straddling the fence, trapped between David’s gun and these men. Behind me, I hear David’s voice, sharp with impatience: “Move it!”
With a deep breath, I swing my other leg over and let myself drop. My feet hit the ground hard, sending shocks of pain up through my ankles, but I barely have time to register it before strong hands grab my arms, wrenching them behind my back.
“Hello, sweetheart,” a voice growls in my ear, hot breath reeking of tobacco and whiskey. “Naomi’s been waiting a long time for this reunion.”
I struggle instinctively, twisting against the iron grip on my arms, but it’s useless. The man laughs, a low, cruel sound, as he binds my wrists together with what feels like zip ties, pulling them so tight my fingers immediately begin to tingle from lack of circulation.
“Let me go,” I demand, but my voice comes out small and shaky, nothing like the fierce command I intended.
The man spins me around, and I get my first clear look at his face. Recognition flickers through me — I’ve seen him before, at the Devil’s Rejects clubhouse during one of the few club parties Roman took me too. Crusher, I think he was called. A fitting name for the massive hands that now shove me roughly toward a waiting car, its engine idling.
The back door is yanked open, and I’m pushed inside, landing awkwardly on my side in the backseat, unable to catch myself with my hands bound behind me. The car reeks of cigarettes and fast food. Empty burger wrappers and soda cups litter the floor, covering my feet as I struggle to right myself.
Before I can get upright, the door on the other side opens and Molly is shoved in beside me. She lands half on top of me, cursing a blue streak. Her hands are also bound behind her back, and I can see angry red marks circling her wrists where the ties dig into her delicate skin.
“Molly,” I whisper, “are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, her tear-streaked face inches from mine. “I think he killed Gunner,” she chokes out. “It didn’t look like he was breathing.”
“I know,” I say, wishing desperately that I could put my arms around her, offer some small comfort. “I know.”