Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (12 page)

Douchebag Guthrie walks me to the front of the station and out the door.

“By the way, Axton”—he drops the new burner phone I had in my equipment bag to the concrete and comes down hard on it with the heel of his shoe—“forgot your phone.”

“I have a feeling we’ll meet again someday.” In fact, I’m sure of it.

Rachel

I keep remembering Ryder’s eyes, like smooth and polished deep green sea glass, with an onyx black band around the iris that makes them stand out even more. I shiver, replaying the way those beautiful eyes made me feel when he looked deeply into mine.

“Miss Farrington.” The voice forces me from my thoughts.

A police officer has finally come for me. He’s a heavyset man—evidence that he spends more time behind a desk than in the field—with thinning hair and an unfriendly mouth. “I’ve been waiting here for almost two hours!” I complain.

“I apologize for the inconvenience; there were several channels I had to follow to assure your safety.”

“Thank you.” I’m sure that hasn’t been a simple thing.

“I’m Chief Warner.” He shakes my hand. “Some of my best officers are readying an armed entourage to deliver you without harm or interruption to agents in Shrevesport.”

“Thank you again. When will we be leaving?”

“I’m here to escort you to the vehicle.”

“I’d like to call my mother first,” I tell him. “And see Ryder . . . Mr. Axton, who I came with.”

“To safeguard your protection we’ve been instructed not to employ the use of any cell or landline with you in custody until we get you safely to Shrevesport. The FBI is concerned about wiretaps—but I guarantee you’ll be able to call your mom in just about an hour, once we’re sure you’re in the right hands.”

“That’s disappointing, but I guess understand,” I say without conviction. “And Mr. Axton?”

“Mr. Axton received his bounty for recovering you and is gone.”

“Gone?” I trill. “That can’t be.” I shake my head, confused.

He reads me like an open book. “I’m sorry you’re upset. But once he was paid, his job was finished. Bounty hunters don’t stay involved once they’ve delivered.”

“Oh.” He just left me.
Without saying goodbye?

What was I expecting?

I was expecting him to check up on me! This news stings a
lot
more than I’d like to admit.

“Chief, Miss Farrington’s escort is ready.” A female officer pokes her head into the tiny waiting room I’ve been locked in for my own safety for the past couple of hours.

“Officer Bloom will be your female escort,” the chief tells me as officer Bloom extends her hand for me to shake.

“Thank you very much for your service,” I say as I shake her hand.

“No problem, Miss Farrington,” she replies.

I’m led to a secure garage lined with black, shiny SUVs. Some of my escort are in plain clothes and others are in full blue uniforms.

“Who are the federal agents we’ll be meeting up with?” I ask.

Chief Warner watches Officer Bloom and I slip into the back seat of one of the pristine vehicles. “Agents Stanley, Decker and Marshall,” he answers as he closes my door and the driver rolls down the window so we can finalize our brief conversation. “You’re in excellent hands, Miss Farrington.”

I look over at officer Bloom and she smiles reassuringly.

The chief taps the door twice and the engines turn over. Three SUVs—I’m in the middle one—pull out under the late afternoon sky.

Nobody is much for talking, which is fine with me.

Why did I think he cared about me?
You were persuaded by his Venus dimples and his rough but elegant mannerisms and ink,
I tell myself.

God, I’m so gullible. I wonder how much he got for bringing me to the police.

I’m so curious, I almost ask officer Bloom, but then I figure I’ll keep my shame to myself. Don’t need to be humiliated in front of a stranger.

So, I read him wrong. It—
I
—was just another job to him. 

About a half hour into our trip, we encounter congested traffic. A mile further, and the front vehicle turns off the main highway and east onto Route 1.

“What’s going on?” I ask Officer Bloom.

“We don’t want to be trapped on the highway, so we’re taking an alternate route into the city,” she tells me.

“Good call.” I look out the darkened window behind me and watch our rear guard follow. I definitely feel safe with a troop of three vehicles. My attention turns to the trial. “Have there been any leads in finding Miguel?”

Officer Bloom shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

I nod. There is something seriously wrong with me. I almost had a vision of Ryder coming with me—you know, like staying with me until the trial was over. Maybe because he promised he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. He said he’d personally protect me from Miguel.

I guess his protection had an expiration date, and it was a hell of a lot sooner than you thought, Rachel.

Who the hell is Ryder Axton anyway?

It doesn’t matter. I’m in a good, sure, safe and dependable place now—I’m in protective custody—and Ryder Axton
is a serious wildcard.

I feel my eyes grow heavy with sleep as the smooth ride lulls and rocks my body.

He
did
promise me a hot meal, and I
haven’t eaten anything since his lame gas station fare.
Just more empty words.

Jesus! He saved me from Miguel, and rival gangs and alligators.
Get over yourself!
I scold inwardly.

But I remember his rugged hands on my body, keeping me afloat in the murky waters, keeping me alive even though I fought him every step of the way. With my eyes closed I can see every curve, crevice and line of his beautifully disciplined body—the tattoos, along with the scars I never asked him about.

I had wanted more time.

He simply hadn’t.

My belly growls, offended.
Grow up.

I fall asleep thinking about cuddling with my little sister and mom on the couch, watching some Netflix marathon and letting go of everything that’s happened.

When I wake up, it’s to shouts of orders, anger and profanity as the vehicle I’m in is run off the side of the highway and into a ditch.

The driver jacks the steering wheel too far to the left, and panic overwhelms me as we go over, rolling onto our roof and sliding deeper into the grassy crevice.

I’m dizzy and disoriented, but physically I think I’m okay. Officer Bloom, who hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt, looks like she hit her head and is knocked out.

“BLOOM! OFFICER BLOOM!” I shake her. She doesn’t move.

Oh my God
. I unfasten my seat belt and carefully climb over her and check her throat for a pulse.

I sigh in relief—it’s there. She’s alive.

I look up and realize I can’t say the same about the driver—he’s bleeding profusely from his head, and his eyes are wide and empty. The officer in the passenger seat—Guthrie—immediately reaches up, opens his side door like a hatch and lifts himself out. And then he starts shooting.

This isn’t a random accident, I’ve been compromised.

I try to think. I’ll be captured if I just sit here waiting for them to take me. And I’m sure Miguel won’t hold onto me to sell me this time. This time, he’ll murder me for certain.

Stretching up my arms I try to force my door open, but it seems jammed closed. I look around me and decide to try the sunroof—I could fit through it. I extend my right arm over the dead driver and hit the roof lever. It slides open.

I pull myself through it and carefully slide off and away from the SUV, when someone grabs me from behind.

Immediately my mouth is covered by a calloused, tattooed hand.

“RYDER!?!” I mumble from behind his flesh.

“You’re not safe.” He drags me back behind a small beige car and shoots over its hood at my escort team.

“Are you out of your mind!?”
He’s shooting at the police!
My mind scrambles to understand this new development.

“Get in the car!” he demands.

All at once, I think I figure this out. “Did you do this?” I shout. “Did you ambush them?”

“They’re driving you straight to Miguel!”

“You’re crazy!?” I cannot even fathom what he is thinking. None of the officers has done anything to make me fear or doubt them. They were taking me straight to Shreveport, just like they said they would. Has Ryder’s paranoia gotten the best of him? “They took me from a police station, Ryder!”

I jerk away from him and he lunges, quickly catching me. “I thought we already worked out this trust thing.”

“You left me there!” I want to trust Ryder. I do. But this is
crazy,
and I suddenly feel like I can’t even trust myself anymore. None of this makes sense.

“I didn’t leave you, they forced me out.”

“What? I don’t—”

“Farrington, they’re going to kill you.”

“No they’re not! They were protecting me!” They
were
protecting me, right? God, why can’t I trust any of my own instincts all of the sudden? I thought I knew Ryder, thought I understood him, but once he left I started to question everything . . . and sane people don’t just start shooting at the police on a hunch. Is this more than a hunch?

“Let the woman go,” a man’s voice shouts.

My heart is pounding with fear and anger. I have to make a decision. “I’m going with them, Ryder.” Even as I say it, I doubt myself, but I struggle from his grasp anyway.

“No, you’re not.” He clasps a handcuff over my right wrist.

“What the . . .?”

“Get into the car, Farrington.”

Immediately, the helplessness I felt when Miguel’s men took me surges up within me once again. The cold bite of the handcuff against my skin makes me sick to my stomach. “HELP! HELP ME!” I scream.

“Jesus Christ!” Ryder growls, crushing and shoving me into the front seat.

I immediately try opening the passenger side door, but he yanks me back towards him, leans over me and snaps the other cuff closed around the bar of the door handle. 

“WHY?” I cry, snapping my wrist against the locked cuffs. I can’t think straight—can’t feel anything but that cuff around my wrist.

Instead of answering, he tears away from the mess of overturned and smashed cars.

“FUCK!” I shout.

“I told you Miguel has men everywhere.”

“
All
of those cops are on Miguel’s payroll? How do you know? Why wouldn’t they have just killed me?”

“Listen, I—” But he suddenly swears and then swerves. The car lurches to the right as he flies against the flow of traffic then detours through a back street. “Put on your seatbelt, Farrington.” 

“No!” I don’t know who to believe or what to think. I need a minute to think this all through—a moment to process everything without the feel of the damn handcuff against my wrist, reminding me . . .

We go soaring over a frost heave and land with skidding tires.

“GET THAT SEATBELT ON BEFORE YOU FLY OUT THE FUCKING WINDSHIELD!”

I do it, but my face is burning with rage and confusion.

He makes a sharp right hand turn and fishtails the car down an alley. The action jostles us violently. With my left hand, I reach to the dashboard for stability.

I whip my head around to look out the back. Two cars are most definitely chasing us. One is an SUV that had been one of the three in my escort, the other is a blue four-door sedan.

Where did that car come from? Is it an unmarked police car?
I wonder.

Turned around like I am, vertigo washes over me. Quickly I face forward again and see, on my right, two bicycles we’re coming up on fast.

“RYDER!”

Slamming his fist on the center of the steering wheel, he blares the horn, and the two cyclists pull out of the way. Darting between cars, he accelerates around the outskirts of the city.