Page 100 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

She shows me her phone. “No signal. I don’t know what to do. I’m late for my doctor’s appointment,” she says, measuring me from head to toe. “Do you know anything about cars?”

“A little,” I say. “I can take a look for you if you want?”

“That would be amazing, thank you.”

I join her in front of the raised hood while she cranes her neck to get a better look at my station wagon. “Old thing, but surprisingly reliable,” I quip, then look at the engine and anything else that might pop out as defective.

“Is that your daughter in the back?” the woman asks with a gentle tone of voice.

“Yeah.”

“Sweetheart,” she coos. “I have three of my own back home.”

“Whoa, three?” I laugh. “How do you manage?”

“I’ve got a good hubby.”

“That helps,” I say, my gaze following one of the main power cables snaking around the engine block. My brow furrows slightly. “I think that power cable is disconnected.”

The woman follows my gaze and reaches over the engine block. “You mean this one?” She picks it up with two slim fingers.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, it’s not disconnected. It’s cut,” she casually comments as she holds it up for me to see.

A shiver travels down my spine as I give her a confused look. “How’d that happen?”

“I cut it.”

The flat smile on her face triggers every alarm in my body before the words even reach my ears. Rushed footsteps come from the side. By the time I turn around and see the tall man in a dark winter coat running toward me, it’s too late. My brain registers everything before my body.

The sharp slap across my face is a decisive jolt that temporarily stuns me.

“Don’t fucking move,” the man says.

I’m frozen on the spot, my knees turned to jelly. He grabs me by the arms. I try to fight him off, but the muzzle of my gun meets my temple. I feel the cold metal pressed into my skin.

“He said don’t fucking move,” the woman snarls.

I stare at him. I don’t know him. He’s big and burly and bearded, rushing to slap a pair of cuffs on my wrists as I tremble in horror. “Please don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt my daughter, she’s just a child,” I manage, my voice breaking.

“We’re not here to kill you, toots,” the man mutters.

“Then what do you want?”

“We’re just making a delivery. Now shut up and do as you’re told, and you’ll live to see another day.”

The gun withdraws, and I glance over my shoulder. The woman smiles—a disgusting, self-satisfied, smug smile. Bitterness spreads on my tongue as bile rises up to my throat. It was all a trap.

And deep down, I think I know who’s responsible.

33

Knox

“It’s only a matter of time before the cops get a witness description and come after us,” Jagger says as we walk into Samson’s hospital room.

“So far, it’s been quiet. We need to take advantage of that and stay off the cops’ radar,” I reply, then give Samson a friendly nod. “How are you holding up, old timer?”

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