Page 25 of Property of Saint

“What if I need to pee?”

Saint straightens, hands something to Heathen, then walks to the door, pausing for a moment to look at me. “He’s got the key.” Then to the prospect, he adds, “Get another prospect up here if she needs to use the bathroom. I fuckin’ warn you, she gets free? You won’t be breathing to miss getting your patch.”

And with that death threat made in front of a government agent, the VP of the Arizona Kings leaves the room.

Leaning my head back, I close my eyes again. While everything in me wishes I could just give in to the sleep that’s calling to my aching brain and limbs, my mind won’t switch off. If I don’t get out of here, then my time on this earth will be measured in days, if not hours.

Still awake after a while, I stare at the prospect who’s sitting, arms crossed, gazing at a space on the wall just above my head as if it would be creepy to fix his eyes on a sleeping woman. When I speak, he jumps, as if not expecting me to be conscious.

“Why do you want to join the Kings?” I ask, interested in what makes him happy to obey their every instruction.

One glance at me, then he stoically returns to watching the paintwork above my head.

“I’m the innocent here,” I try to appeal to him. “I mean no harm to your club. I’ve become involved accidentally.” Thinkinghard, I use the biggest guns that I have. “The Secret Service isn’t stupid, they’ll figure it out. They’ll be coming for me. If you let me go, I’ll keep quiet. I know Saint saved my life, so I’ll return that favour by staying quiet.”

This time, he doesn’t even look my way.

“What’s your real name, Heathen?” I’ve got to find some way to get him to relate to me.

He ignores me entirely.

I try to appeal to him in a number of different ways, but he won’t bend, even a little, and he utters no word to me. The only thing I can do in this situation is reserve my strength for the battle ahead. I lower my eyelids, this time more hopeful of being able to sleep, knowing rest will help me to heal.

Before I can drift into unconsciousness, a hesitant knock sounds on the door. This has an effect on Heathen, and he looks up. “Enter,” he barks.

I suspect he was expecting a fellow prospect, but the person at the door is a teenage youth. Heathen’s eyes widen as he jumps up.

“Ace! What the fuck are you doing here?” Heathen can’t hide how unhappy he is to see him.

As if he’d been running, the youngster answers with pants between each word, “I need to speak to Saint.”

“He’s in church. Now get out of here, kid.” Standing, Heathen tries to shoo him to the door.

But instead of leaving, the teenager’s eyes widen as they fall on me. “Hey, it’s you.” He steps forward with a grin. With manners that appear from somewhere, he holds out his hand as if to shake mine, then frowns as he realises one is confined to a sling and the other handcuffed to the metal bedstead.

He shakes his head and bounces on his feet as if my predicament doesn’t much bother him. Then with excitement, he exclaims, “It worked.”

“What worked?” I respond, curious that he seems to know about me.

His chest puffs out as he turns to Heathen. “Put on the TV. News channel.” Without waiting to check whether the prospect is following his instructions, he states, “Phillipa Owens has just been confirmed as dead.”

Ace.The recollection of his name makes everything fall into place.

“You’re the hacker?” I breathe, my eyes meeting his.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “There’s nothing to worry about now. They don’t suspect a thing.”

This kid has managed to do some high-level hacking. I’m torn between being professionally disgusted and personally impressed at what he’s pulled off. And while I’m thinking about it, Heathen found a news channel, and the headlines come on.

It’s not the first time I’ve been pictured as a lead story. Of course, I was there, front and center, when Adams was gunned down. It’s the reason I was driven off the road to start with. But I’d have hoped never to see the ticker tape across the screen saying, Secret Service agent, Phillipa Owens, is dead. Or to hear the newsreader saying how my car left the road, and there was speculation whether this was an accident or murder.

It’s surreal to see pictures of me in various stages of my life, and the repetition of the conspiracy stories surrounding me.How the hell had they found someone who’d gone to school with me?But they had, and dear old Geoff was wringing his hands, telling everybody what an amazing woman I was, and how much I’d be missed.He’d been one of the worst bullies, picking on the studious girl.I wonder how much the station had paid him. I hoped it wasn’t a lot.

With a sense of disbelief, I listen as they reveal the gruesome details, how my burned body was only identified through my dental records and the cross-match of the DNA. My eyes flicktoward Ace, who’s watching avidly, wondering who the hell this kid is who seems to be able to get into any database he wants.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prospect furiously texting, but turn my attention back to the screen, It’s mesmerising to hear people talking of me in the past, extolling my virtues, while also hinting I might have been part of some heinous crime, the conspiracy theorists that is. Of course, killing me couldn’t be condoned, but perhaps there was some understanding for the people who’d maybe run me off the road.

The force with which the door bangs open makes me jump. Immediately, my attention is off the screen and onto the furious men who’ve entered.

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