“Fuck me,” Spark mutters and climbs off his bike. I do the same, mentally urging her to keep running to us.
When the driver gets out of the truck, I see he’s a slimy-looking fucker. A military wannabe. A weekend warrior.
“Get back in the truck, girl,” the man yells to her.
“No,” she shouts, then looks up at Spark. “Please help me.”
“How many in the truck?” Spark asks me.
I squint. “One in the passenger seat.” The man makes a move to open the door.
“Were you alone in the back of the truck?” Spark asks her.
She nods, rubbing at her wrists. Oh, sweet Jesus. The wounds have all the markings from trying to get free of rope or cuffs. “They tied my wrists.”
Spark steps towards the guy, and I tuck the girl behind me. “We’ve got you,” I whisper.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Spark yells. “I don’t rate your chances.”
The first bullet whizzes by my ear. The next hits the fence behind us. Spark and I start firing rounds. Neither of us wants a body to clean up—that would be hard for me to explain to the ATF—so we aim to wreck the truck. The tires, the radiator, the windshield.
The shooter dives for cover.
“You got her?” Spark shouts.
I take her hand and help her onto the back of my bike. She’s shaking. Numb. Silent. But those brown eyes of hers, so filled with fear, tug at me. “Yeah. Know a place I can take her. I’ll meet you at the clubhouse.”
I exit the lot, racing ahead of Spark. After ten minutes of her shaking behind me, I pull over and climb off the bike. Slowly, I remove my cut and tug my hoodie over my head. No sudden movements; I don’t want to scare her more than she already is. “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “It’s not much, but it’ll keep you warm enough until I can get you to a police station.”
“No,” she says, fear causing her voice to waver. “Please. I just need somewhere safe to sleep tonight. I can’t face the police yet.”
“But ... evidence,” I say, reaching for her chin and tipping her face so I can see her injuries properly. She jerks back from me as if I stung her. Classic abuse signs. I nod in the direction we came from. “You know that guy? Husband? Boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. So not a battered wife or girlfriend.
Her body is wracked with tremors, so I ease my hoodie over her head myself. “I can take you to the ER. Or to Switch, the medic in our club. You want me to call someone to come get you?”
Again, she shakes her head. “Please. I need some clothes. And some cash maybe.”
“Nothing open this late at night,” I say. “Cash I can do. I got some at my place. But you sure I can’t take you to the cops?” I get paid by the club, but it gets handed straight to the ATF. At least, it did when I patched in and finally got paid. Recently, I’ve been taking a little off the top. The bureau has been getting pissy about my expenses. Complaining that the sting is dragging on. They don’t realize the predicament I’m in. I shouldn’t end up out of pocket because the expenses policy doesn’t currently cover everything I have to buy.
Tears fill her eyes. And I’m a sucker for tears. Want to fix what’s broken. Like I used to for Mom and Rae. Because for all dad was a preacher, a saver of souls in the pulpit, he was the taker of them in our home. A violent and malevolent presence.
“I need a minute,” she says.
I want to tell her I’m an undercover agent, that she’s safe with me. Instead, I fight it down. “Look, my place is clean, safe, and about an hour away. I can take you there, help you get some clothes in the morning, then help you figure out what you want to do. Okay?”
She blows out a long slow breath. “Okay.”
I offer her my hand. “My name’s”—I flip through the options, my undercover names merging with my real ones—“Saint.”
“My name is ...” She looks around for a moment. “Briar.”
It’s a pretty name, but to me, it’s clear we both lied.
4
BRIAR
