“The warehouse is more secure,” I finally respond.
After giving her a series of directions, we approach the warehouse. It looms in the shadows at the edge of the industrial district, a grim monument to the illicit activities it harbors. This is where we take people when we need to use certaintechniquesto get information out of them. When we bring in someone who isn’t a part of the club, it usually doesn’t end well for them.
Blue’s eyes widen as we step into the warehouse.“What is this place?”
“The club uses it for a variety of things,” I say casually, trying to calm her fears.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of oil, rust, and fear. The vast, open space is dimly lit by a few buzzing fluorescent lights that cast an eerie glow, leaving corners shrouded in darkness.
The walls are lined with old, corroded metal shelves, some holding grimy tools and others stacked with crates marked with cryptic symbols.
In the center of the warehouse, a makeshift torture area has been set up. A heavy, wooden table stands as the centerpiece, its surface scarred and stained from countless sessions of brutality.
Chains dangle from the rafters above, their metal links clinking softly in the still air. Nearby, a collection of weapons and tools are laid out with meticulous care—pliers, knives, and baseball bats, each chosen for its specific purpose.
The floor is a patchwork of oil stains and dark, sticky spots, remnants of past interrogations. In one corner, a rusted barrel burns with a low, orange flame, casting sinister shadows that dance on the walls.
A row of old, mismatched chairs, each one bolted to the floor and equipped with heavy leather straps, line one wall. As soon as she finishes looking around, she freezes.
“Oh, God! Did you bring me here to torture me?” she gasps.
Chapter 10: Blue
As my gaze darts around Vapor’s warehouse, I feel like I’m going to faint. The oppressive silence is broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe.
The air feels heavy, charged with the weight of unspoken threats and the echoes of anguished cries. The entire space is a testament to the violent dominion of the motorcycle gang, a place where they exact their brutal justice and enforce their code of silence.
Every surface, every object in the warehouse speaks of violence and intimidation. It is a place designed to break spirits and shatter wills, where the motorcycle gang asserts its dominance with ruthless efficiency. The very air seems to vibrate with menace, a constant reminder of the dark deeds done within its confines.
“Please don’t kill me,” I whisper, turning to Vapor to plead with him.
“That’s not why you’re here. Don’t worry. If we wanted to hurt you, you’d already be strapped down.”
“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t.” I press my hand against my belly to stop the wild fluttering of nerves.
The man who jumped into my car right before Vapor has a patch on his leather vest that says‘Ice.’ I know it’s not his real name, because who would name their kid something like that? It’s got to be his club name.
After I met Vapor, I went online to find out about his club. There wasn’t much information available, so I looked up general characteristics of motorcycle clubs. That’s how I know about the patches.
Ice’s piercing blue eyes study me until I shiver and look away. It’s not cold at all in the warehouse. Instead, it’s sweltering. I highly doubt they have air conditioning in it, given its obvious purpose.
The rumble of motorcycles causes the three of us to turn toward the door. Three more men walk in, all wearing their names on their vests.
Fang looked like a computer nerd. It’s the thick, black-rimmed glasses, the male equivalent of the sexy librarian look. He’s hot, but nothing like Vapor. Fang’s wearing a graphic T-shirt that reads‘If all else fails…’ and then it depicts the Ctrl, Alt, Del keys on a keyboard. It would be kind of cute if I wasn’t afraid that he might be here to help delete me from being alive.
The second guy is Diablo. His ruggedly handsome face, with a prominent jawline and intense brown eyes, would be enough to make any woman swoon. There’s more than a hint of danger smoldering in those eyes. It’s unnerving. His short, tousled black hair falls perfectly over his forehead, adding to his brooding, mysterious vibe.
And the last man to join the group is Tank. He’s built like a linebacker, all solid muscle that strains against the white wife-beater he’s wearing. It’s almost laughable how the fabric struggles to contain his powerful chest.
His face is something else entirely. It’s the kind of face that defies age. He could be anywhere from fifteen to forty. There’s an ageless quality to his features, a blend of youth and experience that makes it hard to pin him down, though I suspect he’s on the younger side based on how smooth his skin is. He’s also hot, but he can’t compare to Vapor.
I turn my attention back to the only man I wanted to see tonight.“I was trying to go to you tonight because I needed to warn you.”
“About what?” Vapor asks.
No one sits. There are a couple of unsoiled folding chairs in the corner, but nobody moves to unfold them. They all stand around with their beefy arms crossed over their chests.
“I overheard my father talking to Broussard tonight.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
