Page 77 of Bullet

My self-preservation instincts kick in. I tuck my hand with the letter opener behind my laptop, shielding it from the man’s view.

I picture myself surging up, catching him by surprise, going for his neck, stabbing the metal deep into his jugular. There’d be so much blood. Spurts and buckets, fountains and sprays.

I can’t fucking do that. To save my life, maybe, but even picturing it in my head makes my eyes sting and my throat prickle with acid that wants to surge up from my stomach. My mouth floods with saliva, and a horrible cold sweat drenches my skin.

The thug cracks his knuckles. They’re encased in leather gloves, but he still manages to get a sharp crack out of his bones.

The man’s face is what anyone would probably term ugly. Sharp, hard bone structure, a crooked nose, deep pits along his cheeks, and other small scars littering the surface. I suppose that if he was kind and not threatening, I’d see him in a different light. But he just let himself into my house, casual as you fucking please. He’s not even wearing a mask, which speaks to howcertain he is that he got past all the security. It also means he doesn’t care if I see him, and that chills me to the bone. I’m not getting out of this alive.

I don’t get a chance to ask him what he wants.

He takes two steps towards the desk and extends a hand, like he actually expects that I’ll just stand up, take it, and fucking waltz out of here with him. “If you think that your sister enjoys having her face attached to her skull, you’re gonna come with me right now.”

“That’s bullshit.” I swallow repeatedly, trying to push back the sick swells of bile that the adrenaline and panic keep wanting to push up. I know Willa is fine. He’s bluffing. There’s no way Atlas or anyone from the club would allow anything to happen to her. “I want to talk to her.”

A dark, ominous chuckle rolls through him. He’s not as big as Bullet, but he’s still muscled and has the look of a soldier. A man used to following orders. For who? An enemy of the club, obviously. It’s outrageous that the first thought that comes to mind is Harold Jacobs, but he’s in Mexico, with Wizard tracking his movements.

That doesn’t mean that he couldn’t make a phone call. Get someone to kidnap me and drag me down there. Hold me for ransom the way the club did to his son.

I want to lunge for my phone, but I stay deadly still. Did these men hit the club in Hart and come to kidnap me at the same time? Did they drive up here after? Do they actually have my sister?

My god, something could be wrong right now and I had no idea. I thought I’d get a call, a warning, something, anything, but what if there was no one left alive or uninjured to deliver it?

I stand up slowly, making a show of complying. I don’t mask my fear, but I do keep my right hand behind the shield of my laptop until the very last minute. I’m already standing. I take one step forward, angling my body out from behind the desk before I lunge. I faint to the right, but at the last second, I duck low and charge straight at him, the letter opener extended in front of me. In my mind, I sink it directly into his thigh and when he bends over, screaming in pain, I send my knee straight up into his chin, snapping bones and crunching teeth, before I run.

That’s not how it happens.

One strong, gloved hand grasps my wrist, twisting until I scream, my fingers losing their power and opening. My weapon clatters harmlessly to the floor.

In a movement so quick that I don’t even have time to register it happening until I’m spun around and facing the wrong direction, the thug grabs me and slaps a hand over my mouth. My back is to his chest and he easily overpowers me, even as I struggle and fight, trying to dislodge his arms and get an elbow into his gut. I try to stamp his feet, kick his shins and knees. I can’t do any of it. He’s too strong and too big.

He easily drags me into the kitchen, where he’s set out ominous supplies on the table. My lungs nearly give out at the sight of rope and zip ties, duct tape, and a black hood. At least he didn’t bring plastic wrap and something to gut me with. There’s no collection of hypodermic needles or a bottle of chloroform.

That could be coming later.

The first thing he does is grab that roll of tape. I’m still trying to thrash, to break free, to get the hell away from him, but he holds me tight and wraps the tape all the way around my head, tripling it over my mouth. It’s so tight that it cuts into my lips. It’s disgusting, the taste bitter. I have to quell my sawing breaths before I hyperventilate and pass out.

While I try to get myself under control, the thug zip ties my hands behind my back. He’s as brutal with them as with the tape, and the plastic cuts into my skin. That done, he wraps the rope around my upper arms a few times, pinning them to my body, slams the hood on my head, and hefts me over his shoulder. He carries me out of the house. I hear the door shut and feel us moving. Down the driveway? I feel a slight slant. The door of a vehicle opens and I’m thrust in, hitting the floor hard. Something industrial, probably, because where the hell are the seats and the carpet?

The engine roars, speeding away.

The thug arranges me into an upright position, shoving my back against something hard, probably the van’s far wall.

I won’t be able to breathe and get through this if my brain shoots off the worst possible scenarios to me, one after the other, so I do my best to block them out.

Still, it’s hard not to picture my phone on the desk at home with those unread texts to Bullet. If the club doesn’t know that anything’s happened to me, then they can’t send help. Will anyone find me? How much can a body survive before it breaks? What can I live through, just because I’m forced to do it?

As horrible as picturing being tortured, raped, or left somewhere for dead is, those haunting images are easy to bearthan it is to think that something has happened to Willa. I can’t even go there. I would never, ever survive that.

I have to believe the thug was bluffing about having her. Plus, if they’d hit the club, why would they have to kidnap me? It’s not like they’d need someone to hold as ransom if their demands were already being met by way of force, death, and a hostile takeover.

***

It’s hard to measure time when you’re blindfolded, moving, and scared shitless. Even though I manage to keep myself calm so I don’t suffocate, it could have been hours, or just fifteen or twenty minutes when the vehicle stops.

I scream behind the tape when the thug grabs me, carrying me over his shoulder like a football linebacker. I groan at the jarring way he sets me down, my slippers making contact with what has to be concrete. The air coming through the bag on my head is warmer than outside and smells industrial. If I had to guess, they’ve taken me to a warehouse.

A huge set of hands slams me roughly against something cold and hard. Probably a support pillar. The rough edges dig into my spine. I’m already zip tied and rope tied, but another set of ropes is tugged roughly around my chest, pulling until any air between my back and that pillar disappears.

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