Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (2 page)

Then my heart sinks. “My mom makes the best chocolate chip cookies.”

“Bet she does, Ryder, bet she does.”

“I know they killed her. I heard it.”

“She was brave. She saved you.”

“Yeah.” I sniff and wipe the tumbling tears with my sleeve. “I don’t think I’m as hungry as I thought I was.”

“I can understand that.”

“If I come out, would you make me safe?”

“Yes, son, I’ll make you safe.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Chapter One

Rachel

The throbbing ache inside of my head is proof I’m still alive.

But truth is, I might be better off dead.

Stifling my initial knee-jerk reaction to startle and scream, I instead hold myself as still as death. I’m terrified beyond belief to discover what’s become of me.

I feel the cloth band of fabric tight around my head, covering my eyes.
Don’t panic,
I try persuading myself when I can’t open them.

They didn’t kill me, for some outrageous reason I can’t even fathom.

They could be in the room, watching me right now. They could have men guarding me, waiting until I gain consciousness. Then what would happen?

Interrogation?

Torture?

I steady my breathing, sucking in deep breaths through my nose, and listen.

No one is talking. I can’t detect any physical movement—no shoes scuffling along the floor, no one sniffing or coughing or taking a drink. No pages of a book turning or quiet breathing . . .

No sharpening of a razoresque blade to cut me apart.

There is nothing to hear except the constant repetitive
plink
of water escaping and connecting, one drop at a time, with the surface that halts its course. It’s not the same as a leaky faucet—contained and protected by a sink—there’s another dimension that accompanies the sound—an echo that occurs when it strikes.

What’s it hitting? Cement? Stone?

I take assessment of my body. I don’t
feel
injured. I’m not in any real pain, except that my muscles are sore, like I’ve been in the same position for too long and need to stretch.

Involuntarily, my body shifts to remedy the insult, but the movement is cut short. I’m bound by cuffs constricting my wrists
behind my back!

Anxiety electrocutes me.
Jesus!

Fuck!

I can’t help it, I immediately lurch forward, trying to free myself. My feet and legs are loose, but I can’t stand! I roll up to my knees.

Full of panic, my breathing becomes erratic as I cry out, “Nonononono . . .” and pull and yank at the chain that holds me captive, willing it to let me loose.

The links protest and grind. I’m going nowhere.

Oh my God!
There is nothing as frightening as this—no comparisons, nothing my mind can process as a connection—nothing but terror.

Quickly, I move what I can, anything I’m still free to control. I create small twitches in my toes and then my calves. Almost microscopically, I clench the muscles in my belly, my glutes, my arms. I twitch my biceps and elbows, adding my fingers and neck, jaw and tongue. Tiny movements that remind me I can still move of my own accord.

It’s really just a mind game. A trick to relax—I know that—but it still seems to help. I won’t get out of this if I panic. I have to be smart.

When I get closer to normal breathing, I realize that no one’s said anything. No one is touching me. A temporary sensation—not quite relief—allows me to regain some composure.

My clothes don’t feel wet. I’m warm enough and dry.

Except for my head—and the bass-like pulsing sensation trapped behind my temples—I conclude that I’m mostly unharmed.

But what I can remember is a vague, frayed thread I’m barely able to follow through the thick, murky haze plaguing my mind. It’s like I do and don’t have amnesia at the same time. Like attempting to retrieve a word as it sits on the edge of your thoughts and the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite capture it. There, but elusive.

I may not know exactly where I am, or how I got here, but I absolutely remember
why
.

Ryder

I chase the skip up the neglected back stairs of the housing project. I hear babies crying, and a few people watch us from their dirty windows or back porches. He slides down a garbage strewn hallway and ducks into an apartment.

The sound of grinding metal on metal comes from the other side of the door as the locks engage.

“Now that just pisses me off,” I tell him, looking threateningly through the wrong side of the eyehole. “If you make me come in there to get you, I’ll shoot you in the leg for the fucking trouble.”

No response.

“Excellent decision because I haven’t shot anyone all day,” I announce before blowing a hole between the lock and the cheaply-made doorjamb.

He shouts in surprise. I like that he didn’t expect me to do that.

“You scream like a baby,” I taunt.

“This is, uh . . . illegal entrance!”

“Call the cops.” I shoot out the jamb next to the second lock.

“You need a warrant, motherfucker!”

“Stop fucking swearing, douchebag,” I scold before putting in another round. “And I don’t need a warrant, I’m a bounty hunter,” I say, laughing.

“STOP SHOOTING!”

“Nope. This’ll make it easier to kick in the door.” Light from the apartment shows through the next hole I blow. “I sure hope one of these bullets doesn’t get a mind of its own and shoot directly through the door into you.” I tap across the door with the gun barrel.

If I have to chase criminals all over town, I’m going to have some fun.

“ALRIGHT, MAN! ENOUGH! I’LL COME WITH YOU!” perp-boy cries out.

I listen as the last lock is slowly undone.

“You’re not gonna kill me, right?” His voice is shaking.

I kick the bottom of my steel-toed boot against the door. It whips open, and I train the barrel of my Glock onto the blue of his left eye. “I don’t know, Tyson, I’ve had enough running for the afternoon. If you tried hauling ass again, I might not kill you outright, but I wouldn’t hesitate to blow out a kneecap.”

His arms reach to the ceiling; sweat and terror are all over his face. “I won’t run no more.”

“Then get out here nice and easy, and make sure your hands stay where I can see them.”

“I’m unarmed.” Tyson steps through the doorway.

“Turn around and get your hands on the wall,” I say, grabbing him with my left hand by the scruff of his worn, filthy jacket.

He does.

“How did you find me?”

“’Cause I’m the best.”

“Full of yourself much?” he quips before I shove him so hard into the wall I knock the air from his lungs. He groans.

“It comes easy when you’re as good as me.” I wedge my boot between his feet and kick his legs apart before I clamp the silver steel bracelet around his right wrist. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you, Tyson? You keep on making poor life choices.” I bring down his arm, cuffing both behind his back.

He keeps his mouth shut.

“Why would you want to live here? Don’t you want to make something of yourself someday? Christ, the scum you’re rolling with don’t give a rat fuck if you live or if they cut your head off with a dull-bladed saw,” I explain as I drag his ass down the stairwell of the dingy building.

The few middle grade kids standing in the street admiring my ’89 Dodge Charger scramble away fast when we come out of the hot, stink-filled building.

“Those kids are watching everything you all do here, scumbag.” I shove him across the street then into the back seat, smacking his head on the way in. “Clean up your act and put some time into becoming a better fucking example.”

Holstering my Glock, I don’t bother snapping the leather strap over it. Odds of getting jumped in this neighborhood are too high. “I fucking hate this part of town, and I fucking hate you for making me come into it.”

I pat the KA-BAR at my side for reassurance, reach into my inner vest pocket and pull out my cell phone.

After I dial home base I hear, “Axton Security and National Bail Bonds.” Briggs has said those words way too many times.

“Dude, you sound like a robot.”

“It’s been a long day,” he groans, more human.

“Tell me about it,” I quip, shooting a look over my shoulder. “Fuckface made me chase him halfway across the city of Memphis.”

“Did you get him?” he asks.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” I smile for the first time today. I always get my skip.

“You got a call from D’Angelo this afternoon. He mentioned Homeland Security.”

The smile is gone.

“Have you seen today’s national news headlines?” Briggs inquires.

“No, man.”

“I sent the video to your inbox. Find a hotel, clean up, get a meal and we’ll go from there.”

“Yeah okay, I’m heading to the precinct to deliver Tyson now.”

Fuck!
I’d wanted to go home and catch a breather—share a few brews with the guys back at House of Ink and Steel . . . and most definitely pick up a girl to help me celebrate my victory here today.
Thanks for the cockblock, Briggs.

After putting some distance between me and Memphis, I pull off the highway and head to a crappy off-the-exit Motor Inn. Idling trucks, a neon sign that reads, “Thirty dollars, one person,” and a greasy diner with probably lousy coffee—it’s the ambiance I’m looking for.

I get into my room and immediately set up my cell phone and laptop, both cradled in government grade protective cases, and go through the secured network via my phone.

An email from Briggs leads me to a CNN news bulletin.

“Eduardo Miguel, the primary suspect in the July shooting of Tulane University student Drew Jameson, escaped prison transport early this morning in St. Paul and is still at large. He is considered highly dangerous. A nationwide manhunt for Eduardo Miguel is underway.

The public is urged not to approach or attempt to apprehend Miguel in any way, but if you have any information you’re encouraged to please call the FBI information number.” The screen flashes with a photo of Miguel—dark hair and eyes, defiant expression—along with a hotline number.

Pausing the CNN bulletin, I open a second search tab on Google.

“The fuck,” I mutter aloud, leaning closer to the screen.

Two videos that have been posted to YouTube capturing Miguel’s sensational getaway have gone viral.

The road Miguel’s armored transport vehicle is following is dark and virtually empty. Until it approaches what appears to be an official state law enforcement barricade. When the transport halts, the passenger opens his window to speak with the detaining officer.