Page 203 of Come Back to Me

“I’m incoming too. Do not engage. Dispatch, send backup.”

Brogan howls the second I slam the gas as I hightail it down the road. I’ve never been more grateful that I put one of those safety nets between the back seat and the front so it keeps him contained. I know he’d have jumped into the passenger seat if it wasn’t there.

With him safe, I allow my mind to race with the little Amy told me.

Fairweather’s dead and she’s been hiding out in my fucking town ever since she went underground.

The question is, what was Fairweather doing in Pigeon Creek?

And what on earth made him borrow trouble by going to the Rabid Wolves’ bar?

These arrogant nepo babies—the true crime books write themselves.

Because I’m speeding on this barren stretch of Clemens Lane, I make the twenty-minute trip in ten.

It’s not fast enough though—just as I’m pulling into the dirt parking lot, I see Dion and Marty taking shelter behind their respective car doors as the unmistakable sounds of gunshots being fired punctuate the squeal of my brakes.

“Marty,” I shout, ducking out just in time for my windshield to shatter and a bullet to pierce the headrest.

The scent of cordite shoots adrenaline through my veins like a hit of heroin. Fuck, I didn’t know how badly I needed to experience this again.

A part of me wasn’t sure if what happened in Russia would have me freezing, but I’m more aware than ever, my brain as clear as if I were flying into direct engagement with an enemy in the sky.

“Chief?!” Dion screams, loud enough to be heard over Brogan’s outraged howling. “You okay?”

Rolling out of the vehicle and taking cover behind my door, I yell back, “I’m fine. What the fuck’s going on?”

“They opened fire when we pulled in,” he calls, but I can hear the panic and inexperience in each word.

Fuck.

“Are you hurt?”

“Neither of us are.”

Nodding to myself, I holler at the MC bar, “You are surrounded by armed marshals. Put the weapons down and step outside?—”

A hoot sounds from the doorway, one that triggers a wave of cheers from inside the building. “You think we listen to the likes of you?”

“If you don’t wanna be shot in the head and become a statistic in police fatalities, then I’d suggest you actually do as you’re fucking told.”

“This is private property. You have no right to come here and lay down the law!”

That’s another voice—a different one. I realize the original speaker was the guy who took Amy’s phone. From the approving yells inside, I have no way to identify how many people we’re dealing with.

“Gunshots were fired,” I answer. “I also have reason to believe you’re holding someone hostage.”

“Hostage?” The second biker barks out a laugh. “Who are we holding hostage? Everyone here wants to be here.”

“Amy Nygard.”

“What about her? She’s one of us.”

“You admit you’re harboring a fugitive?”

“A fugitive?” That’s the original guy. “She ain’t been charged with shit.”

“You and I both know that she was distributing drugs at her school.”

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