Page 71 of Prodigal Son

Behind her, Clive breathed a muted scream through clenched teeth. Vivian had shot him in the arm, and he’d toppled backward out of his chair onto the carpet, eyes comically wide.

“Be quiet,” Vivian ordered. Her tone was ice. Her heels clipped as she walked around the table.

The window latch was simple, and Axelle flicked it open. Hoisted the window up six inches, and turned back.

Vivian stood over Clive, gun trained on him. He clutched his wounded arm, blood seeping between his fingers, staining his sleeve, dripping down onto the rug. His face gleamed with sweat, his white teeth clenched in a grimace.

“Please,” he said. “They’ll kill me.”

“So will I,” Vivian said.

A sound echoed overhead. Another gunshot, Axelle realized with a lurch. Muffled shouts and footfalls. Someone pounded on the locked door of the conference room, shouting. The receptionist – not so posh now.

“You called us here so you could kill us,” Vivian pressed, still cold, still composed. She was terrifying. “Why? Who put you up to this?”

“I – I – I can’t–”

“Time to go, love,” a voice said at the window, and Axelle pulled her own gun, finally, sweaty palms sliding on the grip, but holding; she wouldn’t drop it, not now that she finally had its comforting weight in her hands.

She leveled it on the window.

On Albie.

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed, “stop doing that!”

He held a gun in one hand, the other one resting on the windowsill, gaze hard. Professional. “She shot him?”

His calmness helped her take a deep breath and find a little of her own. “Yeah. She just fucking went off on him.”

He jerked a nod. “Step back.” And hauled himself nimbly up through the window and into the room.

“What the fuck is going on, Albert?” Raven snapped. Her eyes were wild, half-dazed. “Who the fuck is shooting up there?” She waved toward the ceiling.

“That was me. I ran into a team of four,” he said, matter-of-fact, as he crossed the room toward Clive. “Tac gear, AKs. Guns for hire, I’d guess. I created a diversion and got out of there. We need to go. Chef’s pulling the van around. Miles recorded all of this, I’d assume, good work,” he said to Axelle, motioning toward the notebook, and camera, she’d left on the table. “Get that. We’re taking it, and him, with us.” This last he said as he crouched down on the rug and took Clive’s handsome square chin in his hand. He squeezed tight, his knuckles going white, Clive’s mouth squishing up into a comedic pout. “Whose dogs are those upstairs?” he asked, and suddenly, Albie was terrifying too.

Probably more so from Clive’s perspective.

The businessman swallowed with an audible gulp and whimpered, “Please. They told me I had to.” Words muffled by Albie’s grip.

The biker turned him loose and stood up with a sigh. “Come on, we’ll take him with us.”

“Take him with us?” Raven and Axelle asked in unison.

But Vivian nodded, seemingly on board. “We’ll pump him for information. Girls, let’s go, chop-chop. In another minute that little wanker from the lobby will have the door unlocked.Move.”

Axelle scrambled to comply. Stress had turned her muscles weak; she felt shaky inside, down to her organs and bones, like if she so much as stubbed her toe she might shatter into little bits all over the floor. This wasn’t her wheelhouse. She could shoot, and climb, and tough it out with the best of them – but this, under fire, trained paramilitary types bearing down on them…she’d never faced anything like that before. She needed to get behind the wheel. Now. Then she could come back online and be a real asset to this team.

That’s what it was, she realized, as she scraped the notebook and camera into her purse and moved to follow Raven to the window. She’d spent the last few days thinking of this motley crew as a hodgepodge of bikers, businesswomen, secret agents, and grudging allies. But they were a team, however unlikely, all bent on the same goal: staying alive.

More bikers had arrived, dressed in plain black, climbing in to help Albie get Clive on his feet and cuff his hands together. One Lean Dog put a tourniquet and makeshift bandage on the man’s wounded arm. Another tied a black strip of cloth across his eyes.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Vivian chanted, hand pressing to Axelle’s back. She steered her along after Raven, to the window, where Tommy stood ready to help them down.

“You alright?” he asked Raven, quietly, once her high heels hit the paving stones of the garden path.

She jerked a nod.

“Van’s right there,” he said, almost gentle, pointing her toward a plain-sided black work van.

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