Page 13 of Property of Saint

“‘Cause it was one of their own, and they didn’t mean to kill her.” Rattler looks triumphant as if he’s solved the answer to the question of the meaning of life.

As I sigh deeply, Words nods his head toward his brother, Rattler, then shrugs. “Rat might be barking up the wrong tree, but could be in the right forest. I’d like to hear what the Fed has to say for herself.”

“Secret Service,” I correct again.

Bullseye lazily pushes his chair back and places the sole of his right foot against the table. He looks relaxed but sounds nothing but as he snarls, “Don’t care what colour jacket she wears or theletters on the back. Bitch is law enforcement. And my fuckin’ VP has brought her into our house.”

Reeling back, I protest. “Prez, I…”

“Shut it, Saint.” Bullseye lowers his foot, pulls his chair back in, and sits up straight once again. “Not saying you betrayed us deliberately. But for some fuckin’ reason, you’ve brought trouble directly to us.” He pauses and directs his next words to Freak. “I’ve got questions, and I want them answered.”

I think Rattler’s way off the mark, and he’s just shooting off his mouth to rattle cages, something he got his name from. But there are many things we need to address. “Best to get the answers from the horse’s mouth.” Showing it’s not a suggestion, I stand. But rather than disrespecting him and giving him my back, I make an offer. “Coming?”

Bullseye’s lips curve. “No.”

Fuck.

But almost without hesitation, he adds, waving his hand to encompass the whole room. “Fed up with all the Chinese whispers. We’re all going to hear what she has to say at the same time. Bring her down here, to church, now.”

Freak’s eyes widen. “She’s fucked up pretty bad, Prez.”

Bullseye’s eyes become slits. “You think I give a damn? We’ve already ensured she’s dead. I’m one step away from putting a bullet directly into her head to make it for real.” He offers a glare and a challenge. “What the fuck would we do if she were a man?”

He’s right. The minute we’d learned their profession, we’d have dragged them down here to give us answers. In fact, we’d do worse. We’ve got a whole torture chamber set up in one of our barns. She might not appreciate it, but if all she gets is an interrogation around the table, followed by a quick death, she’ll be getting off lightly.

“I’ll go get her.”

CHAPTER SIX

PHILLIPA

Aclub bunny, sweet butt, or whatever this club calls them, easily identifiable by the trashy clothes that revealed too much cleavage and, when she’d turned her back, the crack of her ass, had brought me some food and a bottle of water to drink. I can’t stomach the thought of solids as I feel nauseous, but I’ve gradually been draining the liquid sip by sip.

I think I might feel better if a truck had driven over me. My head is pounding, the pain from my leg is trying hard to compete, and other aches and pains all over my body are singing in harmony. I feel like absolute shit. The nausea I put down either to the concussion, or the sedative that disgusting medic used.

The prospect has stayed silent. I’d tried querying his name, but he kept his mouth zipped as though it was a state secret to divulge anything. Huh. State secrets, well, I might know a thing or two about them.

If the man in my room has reasons to stay silent about his identity, I can top them by a thousand or more. It’s true that if it hadn’t been for Saint, I’d now be dead. And I question my sanitywhen I remember it was me who asked him to bring me back to his club. At the time, I’d been in shock, with nothing more than a burning desire to put distance between me and those who tried to murder me. If I hadn’t pushed, he’d have left me by the side of the road, and who knows who could have driven past? Maybe I should have asked to be dropped off somewhere else, but I’m not from Arizona. I’m just passing through, and at that point, my befuddled mind couldn’t conjure an alternative.

So far, I’ve been treated well, if you ignore the type of man they use as their doctor. My injuries have been treated to the extent that I no longer think I’ll die, and I’ve been given hospitality and offered sustenance. But I’m under no illusion that it could all change in the blink of an eye.

I might not have seen it in the dark of the ravine, but once I’d woken, I’d seen the yellow diamond on his cut. Saint’s a member of a one-percenter MC, with no love for anyone from the government. And while I’m more in the realm of protecting high-ranking people, and even if my colleagues and I might be called in to investigate financial or fraud cases, those are at a level that would be beyond the scope of an MC. I know about such gangs. I’ve been trained to have knowledge of any organisation that could be a threat. But I can truthfully say none of the chapters of the Kings of Anarchy have come across my radar, so my professional interest is completely zilch. That doesn’t mean I’m not blind to the fact they’re hardly choir boys. And if they get one sniff that I might have a connection to law enforcement and be a possible threat to them, they won’t hesitate to kill me to get me out of their way. They’re all about protecting their own, and the club comes above everything. When they put on the patch, they agree to die for their brothers, so ending my life would mean nothing to them.

I’ll keep my identity to myself, thank you very much. Surely that won’t be too hard? I just have to remember to answer toJane. It’s not like I’m going up against any world geniuses. These men ride bikes, run dubious local businesses, fight and fuck. They can’t be much of a threat.

What’s my cover story going to be?Tapping my fingers together beneath the sheet, I start to think.Maybe I’m a gambler who got too lucky at the tables, and the casino owner sent his goons after me?I shake my head, no. Too farfetched.Why not fall back on the old staple? Disgruntled lover whose manhood was insulted?Yes, now that’s something I think these misogynistic bikers would believe. But then again,what if their shared disdain for women put them on the side of my mythical ex?Damn it, I’ve got to come up with something.

The door suddenly bursts open—no knock, no polite waiting to be invited in. Startled, I sit up too fast, then put my hand to my aching head. The pain makes me glare at the man who’s entered, immediately recognising it’s Saint. It takes me a moment to remember that he’s my saviour, and if it wasn’t for him, then I would be dead.

After taking just one step into the room, he snarls a comment. “You’re wanted downstairs. Now.”

While I’m wondering just how I’m going to do that, he half turns and takes two items that somebody behind him hands to him.Crutches.Well, at least they don’t think I’m going to hop all the way.

I frown. I’ve got one leg plastered from ankle to knee, inconvenienced in a way I never have been before. The aids that will help me to walk seem foreign. Yet, as he passes them to me, I pull up my big girl panties and try to pull myself off the bed, only to fall back down, making every hurt pulsate in agony. I try to grit my teeth, but a groan still escapes.

Saint growls, steps forward, and more gently than I expect, puts an arm around me and helps me to my feet, well, to the one working leg I can put my weight on. He then steadies thecrutches under me, waits until I’m steady, and then lets go as if touching me burns him. Applying logic to the problem, I lift both crutches, then step my good leg forward, swinging the plastered one with me. Pausing for a moment to regain my balance, feeling the burn to the shoulder I’d dislocated, I take a deep breath before repeating the action. Two steps more have me out of the door, then at a snail’s pace, I proceed down the corridor that Saint directed.

Practice makes perfect, and this is no exception. I gain speed, proud of my accomplishment, until I face a flight of stairs. Stopping abruptly, I foresee doing myself even more injury.

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