THIRTY-SEVEN
The drop zone was set for dawn on the outskirts of town where no one would witness the exchange—or the gunfire.
It was the perfect place, as far as Repo was concerned. Traffic didn’t frequent the area, off the beaten path as it was. Although he’d known diehard joggers tended to use the trails from time to time. This early in the morning on a weekday probably—hopefully—wasn’t one of those days.
The instructions had been simple: No cops, no guns, and only he, Blake, and Country were invited.
They’d followed one of those orders.
Brothers were scattered at strategic points, acting as lookouts and backup. Their intent: take out the whole Cruiz line rather than just cutting off the head. The organization would likely return, but it would take a hell of a lot longer this time. Third time’s a charm, as the saying went.
Repo stood at Blake’s right, Country at his left, and the weight of his forty-fives against his chest offered small comfort. In his hand, he held his trusty bowie knife, brought out for just this occasion, twisting the sharp tip against the pad of his thumb with just enough pressure to feel the bite.
Having Ginger in danger had him twisted inside. Same for Blake, and he had a lot more to lose. If this didn’t work out as planned, then his son was about to lose his whole family.
They weren’t going to let that happen.
Which was why Repo had wanted Blake to stay back while he and the brothers handled the dirty work. Repo’s healing wounds were the reason Blake wanted him to stay back, but if he was fit enough to fuck, then he was fit enough to engage. They’d agreed to disagree, and now here they were, two stubborn assholes handling business.
“They’re late,” Country muttered as he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He’d been smoking like a chimney all morning. Repo doubted his cologne had stood up to the stench. He turned his head, taking a small sniff of his clothes and caught a whiff of the cloying scent.
“You should quit,” he told Country. “I smell like a damn ashtray.”
“You’re going to smell like my fist in a second—what? I’m kidding!” he backpedaled immediately when Repo shot him a dirty look. Inside, he smiled, loving the reaction he garnered out of every man, no matter how big or small or mighty, with just that one look.
“Stop teasing the man,” Blake chided, smiling faintly. It was the first bit of levity he’d seen in him since this all began.
Repo shrugged and went back to watching the dirt road for any signs of their “friends” heading their way. Their biggest concern? The women getting caught in the crossfire. “You’re right,” he groused, “they should have been here by now. Something’s up.”
Blake’s brows pulled together as he took out his phone. “This doesn’t feel right. Something’s off.” He sucked in a sharp breath, catching Repo and Country’s attention.
“What is it?” Repo asked, turning to face his president with concern. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood at attention, and his gut instinct told him that something was very, very wrong.
As Country and Repo turned to face him, Blake thumbed the screen on his phone, reading. “It’s Tanner. I had my phone off. I didn’t realize he was texting me. Said the clubhouse was attacked?” His head snapped up, eyes wide as he looked to Repo. “Place got shot up then they took a match to it. It’s bad.”
“Causalities?” Country asked, voice rough.
“Don’t know yet.”
“This Cruiz?” Repo inquired, already certain of the answer.
“Has to be,” Blake said, scowling at the phone as he tried to decipher the message. “Tanner said cars like the one we saw when you got hit were there, and it seemed personal.”
“And since our guys are a no-show…” Country puffed on his cigarette, taking the stick all the way to the filter before flicking it into the dirt.
“They set us up.” Repo, Blake, and Country looked down that path once more, dread filling them. “They never intended to meet us.”
Only one question remained: Where were Ginger and Gabby?
***
Hoofing it was a bitch. But at least they still had feet, Ginger told herself. It could always be so much worse.
“How we doing, Momma?” she asked Gabby, who was hobbling like a lame horse.
“I’m hanging in there. Just a few more miles, right?”
Ginger nodded. A couple hours before, while it was still dark out, two men had burst into their room at château murder and yanked them from their slumber, dragging them by the hair and arms through the mansion and tossed them into the back of a black Hummer with a command to “Shut up and be quiet.”
Ginger, irritated at the rough handling and the situation in general, had felt the need to point out the redundancy of that statement, which had earned her a hearty smack across the face. Her tongue poked out, licking at the split in her bottom lip.
The asshole had caught her pretty good. She could taste the dried blood. She could feel it, too, crusted on her chin and neck. What a pretty picture she must be.
“At least the walk will help me work off this fat ass, but they could have been nice enough to let us keep our shoes,” Gabby said for the hundredth time.
Yeah, Ginger wished the same. She’d already stepped on countless stones and debris, bruising her tender soles, again. And she had blisters, too. But she wasn’t complaining. Freedom was better than being buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.
The moment the doors had opened, and they’d been dumped back out onto the road, they’d been directed to start walking, don’t look back, and don’t breathe a word of where they’d been or who they’d seen. The “we know where you live” part was implied.
Ginger never thought she’d say it, but she was questioning once again why she’d gotten herself mixed up in the biker world. She’d bought into the whole cleaning up their act business and had hoped along with the rest of them that the future would be sunshine and roses, but as it seemed to go with any kind of gang, once you were in, you were in for life.
“I still don’t understand why they let us go?”
“The guys must have made a deal,” Ginger guessed. “Or that crazy bitch has something up her sleeve.”
“You think this might be a trap?” Gabby asked, fear in her voice.
“I don’t think anything,” Ginger told her honestly. She was focused on the here and now. And right now, she just wanted to get home, shower, change her clothes, and be safe. She wanted doors and locks between her and the world for the foreseeable future.
And she wanted revenge. The brothers would take care of that part, mercilessly. No doubt, they were already working on it. And Ginger knew just where to send them.
A person didn’t live by cut without picking up a few tips and tricks.
“You’re right,” Gabby agreed. “It’s better we don’t think.”
They stayed quiet the rest of the way, holding each other up when neither thought they’d make it another step. By sheer will, somehow they were able to keep going.
And when they finally made it to the end of Gabby’s never-ending driveway and looked up at her little house in the woods, Ginger had never felt more like crying.
Gabby did. “Oh my God,” she sobbed, grabbing hold of Ginger’s wrist and dragging her up the stairs with her. “I never thought we’d make it.”
Fearing the worst, despite salvation being at their fingertips—or maybe because of it—Ginger was scanning the area, searching for anything out of place. “I don’t see the bikes.”
Gabby paused, crouched in front of the door, a single silver key in her hand that she’d pulled out from under the welcome mat. Someone had to tell her how incredibly cliché and obvious that “hiding” place was. No doubt Blake had no clue it was even there. Otherwise he’d have put an end to that in a heartbeat.
“Maybe they’re out looking for us,” Gabby said hopefully. “I’ll call him as soon as we get inside and let him know we’re safe.”
But the question was, were the brothers safe?
With an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach, Ginger followed Gabby inside.
Talia, who had been lying on the couch, jolted upright as if she’d been shot and had a gun aimed at their forehead before Ginger had time to blink.
Gabby and Ginger froze on the spot, hands flying up into the air on reflex. “Don’t shoot!”
It took Talia a moment to shake off the fog of sleep and realize who they were. Then she was up and out of her seat, apologizing profusely as she rushed over to hug them. “Oh my God, I was so worried!” she cried. “We’ve all been so worried. What happened? Who took you? Are you okay?”
Gabby and Ginger rushed to assure her they were fine and answer her questions as succinctly as possible.
“Where’s Blake and Ash?” Gabby asked, kicking into wife and mother mode.
“Ash is in bed, sleeping. Blake and the guys went off to make the exchange… Wait,” Talia said, brows furrowing, “why aren’t you at the exchange? Where are the guys?”
“What exchange?” Ginger asked. “We were dropped on the side of a road and made to walk back.”
Talia’s frown deepened. “But if… That means…” Her eyes widened. “They’re walking into a trap.”
Gabby and Ginger’s fears reared up once again, and they exchanged looks of apprehension.
“Go check on Ash,” Ginger told her. “I’ll call Repo.”
Talia already had her cell phone out. “I’m calling Tucker.”
Gabby ran off, and Ginger was already dialing on the house phone. When she didn’t get an immediate answer, she used Talia’s phone to send several texts, informing Garrick that she was safe and at Blake’s house and to call her immediately.
She hadn’t even finished typing her last text when her phone rang.
“You’re okay?”
Garrick’s voice on the other end of the line sent Ginger’s heart racing. Despite how they’d left things, she was beside herself just to hear him. “I’m fine,” she assured him, “but how are you? What’s this about an exchange?”
“It’s a long story. Doesn’t matter now. Look, stay where you are. We’ll come to you.”
“Okay, I—” Ginger pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it. “He hung up on me.”
“They’re on their way over,” Talia said, her voice hard. She was looking at her phone with intense concentration.
“What’s wrong?” Ginger asked, picking up an odd vibe.
“It’s the clubhouse. It’s gone.”