Farrah

 

I saw his gun. The cop had drawn a fucking gun. And for what? Were they that eager to catch me that he’d risk opening fire in a crowded, violent biker bar? No serious cop would ever do that.

 

No serious cop would ever do that.

 

That thought stayed with me for a long time.

 

I was crouched low, hiding from view behind those broad shoulders of the man named Connor. He looked curious, even baffled, but in no way scared. If I wasn’t afraid of getting my brains blown out any second, I probably would have fawned over him.

 

Beside me, I could sense Honi trembling with fear. She was breathing in fluttering, shallow gasps, and I could practically feel the whites of her eyes scanning the room. As quietly as I could, I reached down and took her hand.

 

“They’re gonna kill us,” she stammered.

 

“No they won’t, Honi,” I replied. My voice was steady and strong. In only one situation before had I been this afraid, and then I was calm, too.

 

“They’re gonna kill us!” she repeated, louder this time.

 

“No they won’t, Honi.” I could feel her panic threatening to break through.

 

“THEY’RE GONNA KILL US—”

 

“HONI! NO!”

 

She sprang from our hiding place, knocking me aside as she dove for the window. For a fleeting moment, her hands scrabbled against my body, and I thought she was reaching for comfort, for help. But no! A moment later her hands were gone, and with a strength that did credit to her athleticism, she seized a chair, hurled it through the window, and slipped out into the night.

 

Chaos erupted around us. People leapt from their seats, shrieking and shouting, while the ruffled bikers pulled knives and weapons of their own. The cop fired into the air, shattering a light and showering the crowd with sparks, but it was too late: for the moment, chaos ruled.

 

My eyes danced around, looking for a way out. I had no time to worry about Honi or feel betrayed. This was about survival. I looked at my options.

 

The main exits were too crowded. People, pressing in from all sides, struggled to get out. The cop was now at Honi’s window, and I noticed with a chill that the bouncer now stood by the other window, like a guard.

 

I glanced to my left. There! The kitchen door! Workers were streaming out of it, looking at what was going on, but I saw no one going in. Resolved, I made to dash for the swinging kitchen door.

 

But then, an iron fist closed around my arm. Adrenaline coursing through me, I whirled, and saw my captor.

 

Connor. His teeth were bared, and his fingers were dug so deep into the flesh of my forearm that I could already feel myself bruising. My God! He’s strong! I thought stupidly.

 

He pulled his face close to mine. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

 

“I … nothing! Nothing!” I lied, but he squeezed me harder, to the point that I could almost feel tears leaking from my eyes.

 

I stopped them then and there. This was not a time for tears.

 

“Liar!” he growled. “The cops are after you! Why?”

 

I searched around frantically, looking for something—a weapon, a weakness-- something to break his grip. I noticed something funny then, sewn into his lapel: a familiar symbol. A winged skull, embossed in silver and red.

 

Rage surged through me. “Since when are Devil’s Wings friends of the police?” I demanded. He blinked, and I could see that I’d stunned him.

 

“How do you know I’m a Devil’s Wing …”

 

He was eying me now in a whole new light. I felt like an exotic animal, and he was a fascinated poacher. In an instant, I decided to trust him. Call it instinct. Call it desperation. Call it whatever you want. I didn’t give a fuck anymore.

 

“I’m Farrah … Farrah Michaels,” I said. “Daughter of Sam Michael’s. And I need your help.”

 

Connor’s eyes went wide. I could tell I had struck him deeply.

 

He nodded at me. “All right, Farrah,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

 

# # #

 

Connor grabbed my hand. In an instant, he was in charge. He leapt up, shielding my body from view with his own impressive presence, and then, crouching low, we darted towards the kitchen.

 

People shrieked. The bouncer charged his way forward. I think they were finally beginning to sense that the kitchen was the only way out. Distantly, I heard the sounds of sirens outside.

 

We burst through the swinging kitchen door. A chef shrieked, dropped the pizza he was holding, and fled the room. I heard a door swing just out of sight as he disappeared.

 

“There!” I called. “Behind the stove! An exit!”

 

Connor did not need to be told twice. Hell, he probably did not need to be told once. Still holding me viciously by the arm, we dashed towards the back door, our only unblocked exit, hope pounding in our hearts.

 

But then:

 

Cops! Ringing outside the door! At least a half dozen, guns drawn, about to burst inside!

 

A scream erupted from my throat. I could not help it. It was like lightning.

 

And yet Connor was quicker.

 

A split second after seeing the cops his free hand clamped over my mouth, silencing my fear, and we stumbled back, out of view.

 

I looked frantically around, using both hands to wrench his hand off my face.

 

“What do we do?” I demanded. Both ways out of the kitchen were blocked. The bouncer would be bursting in from the bar side any second, and the cops outside the back exit were about to come in. Connor’s eyes darted around, scrutinizing the situation. I saw him reach out and seize the handle of a great cooking knife.

 

Part of me felt faint. Part of me wanted to tell him not to be an idiot. And part of me— that dark part, somewhere below my belly button— flared with warmth at the sight of him.

 

That was when I noticed, just behind him, another door.

 

“There! I think that’s the basement!” I cried, this time seizing his hand and dashing towards the final door. It was so crusted with dirt and age that it had blended in exactly with the scarred wall of the kitchen, so we hadn’t noticed it at first. That, and because there was only darkness behind it. We thrust it open and fled down the slimy concrete stairs that waited below.

 

We were in pitch darkness. There’d been no time to find a light switch. I heard a scuffling of fingers on leather, and then Connor’s lighter flickered into existence. It revealed towering piles of boxes, shelves of old filing papers, and, in the far corner, two very old, very rusty looking walk-in freezers.

 

“Search the place!” a voice echoed from the kitchen. “She could be hiding somewhere!” The sound of it made me freeze. Where have I heard that voice before …

 

Connor looked to me, nodded to the freezers, and then back at me. I nodded, too. What choice did we have?

 

We fled to the farthest one, wrenched open the door, and whisked inside. The door thumped close behind us, and just in time, for, as we were sealed in, light flooded the basement.

 

Someone was coming down the stairs.

 

Guided only by the meager flame of Connor’s lighter, we surveyed the scope of the freezer. Dead meat—red, frosted, and sealed in plastic—towered in piles taller than us. I stifled a scream as I turned and found myself face to face with a pig’s head.

 

“What the hell are they doing with that?” I gasped, but Connor shushed me. He was glancing around.

 

“There!” he said, pointing at some large form suspended from the ceiling. I swallowed. It looked to me like the rest of the fucking pig.

 

Without waiting for me to respond, he grabbed me, thrust the pair of us behind it, and doused his lighter. In absolute darkness we waited, huddled in this tiny corner and shielded by a hunk of meat. In the silence, I was aware of the cold already creeping into my ears and my fingertips, but I ignored it. The smell, too, made me nauseous. Half was horrible: the furry, dusty smell of dried blood. And yet the other half was quite nice. Pine needles and cigarettes. Wood smoke and leather. I realized with a pang that I was smelling Connor.

 

The sound of footsteps outside the door. It opened, and a man stepped in, swinging a flashlight lazily across the piles of meat. We stiffened, shrinking as far as we could into our little corner. Another man ambled in behind him, his flashlight landing on the pig's head.

 

“Huh-huh, look,” he grunted, jutting his arm forward and sticking it in the pig’s nostril. He did not look or sound like a cop. He sounded like a thug.

 

“Stop fooling around!” the first man scolded. “The boss already thinks we’re not taking this seriously!”

 

The second man soured, offering a face that looked strangely like the pig’s. “Well, why should we?” he complained. “He’s off his fucking rocker, going nuts looking for this girl.”

 

Oh, no, I thought, as fear—a deeper fear than anything I had felt so far on this strange fucking night—flooded through me. The freezer was already icy cold, but I felt as if the temperature had dropped another thirty degrees. You see, a suspicion was growing in my mind: who the men were that were looking for me. And why.

 

“Come on,” said the first. “Let’s go. We’re freezing our balls off in here.”

 

The second grunted in agreement, and together they shambled out of the freezer. The door clicked behind them, and once more we were alone in darkness.

 

A cruel voice came from the shadows, suspicious and knowing. “So,” Connor said. “Is there anything you wish to share, Farrah Michaels?”