Page 3 of Guarded By Atlas

“Shut up!” he hisses, and I can hear the nerves in his voice as he grips my arm and pulls me toward the van. “Just shut the fuck up and get in the van.”

I try to tap into the lessons we were taught about how to de-escalate frenzied patients, but before I can think of anything to say, he pushes me toward the open door of the van. I turn around and a chill runs down my spine when I am met with dark hateful eyes glaring at me, and I realize that there is nothing I could say to save myself from this situation. With another shove, I stumble inside, the darkness engulfing me, the smell of stale air and metal filling my nostrils. The door slams shut behind me, trapping me in a cage of steel and fear.

I’ve been kidnapped.

The thought sends me scrambling to my feet and pushing against the door, searching blindly for some mechanism to open it, but I come up empty. I move to kick the door, but I’m thrown down when the van starts moving. I wrap my arms around my head to brace for impact when the van takes rough turns, each one sliding me from one side to the other; there is nothing to grab to steady myself.

I’ve been kidnapped.

My heart thumps in panic as I close my eyes against the thought, even as another, equally terrifying one filters in.

What do they want?

Chapter Two

Atlas

Life begins at thirty, they say. Well, they clearly weren’t talking about my life.

Christ, at thirty-six, I feel every bit of those years. It’s been a heck of a busy week, and I ought to join my MC brothers down in the bar and unwind with a bottle of beer and terrible music, but here I am, settled in my armchair, a well-worn copy ofthe Odysseyin my hand and my ginger cat draped across my lap.

Most of my MC brothers are downstairs getting drunk, which is a sensible thing to do on a Friday evening, but I’m locked in my apartment with a fucking book that barely anyone reads anymore. Fuck, this is the kind of shit those old fucks do.

I shift my eyes from my book to the window. Outside, the world is a symphony of noise—the wail of sirens, the cackle of drunk teenagers carrying through the night and the car honks that seem to come from all around. The chaos within Chicago is worlds apart from West Odessa with its endless flatlands and tumbleweeds. I left the dust and silence ages ago for this concrete jungle.

Left the endless days of working on the oil rigs, the smell of crude clinging to clothes and the grime under my fingernails.I spent my whole life in the arid expanse, a world of endless horizon and deafening silence only broken when I rode my Harley along the dusty road, allowing myself small pleasures when I was done baking in the sun. But I wanted more, a community, a family.

The Steel Rebels MC offered me that.

So I left the oil rig, the dust and the silence of West Odessa, and headed northeast.

Chicago is a different beast. It’s loud and chaotic, it’s alive. But every once in a while, the hermit in me that was raised in West Odessa reemerges, and then I find myself locked in my apartment with a book and a chubby ginger cat I named Rusty while listening to the world move all around me.

A faint sound drifts through the city’s noise. My mind slowly surfaces from the past when I realize how out of place the sound is. The second my thoughts snap back to the present, I make out the insistent ringing of my phone.

Shit!

I snap the book closed and toss it on the table before lowering Rusty to the floor. I get up and follow the noise to the bedroom where I left my jacket. I quickly take it out and only sigh a little when I see the MC president’s number flash over my screen. Saint would not call me so soon after coming home from a job if it was not important, so I take the call.

“Atlas, are you at the clubhouse?”

“Hmm,” I hum. “Got back a couple of hours ago. Need anything, Prez?”

“I need you to come down to Ransom’s office immediately.” The dark and slightly unnerved tone of his voice sends the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight. Saintis not a man who rattles easily, but before I can ask more, he quickly adds, “I’ll tell you everything when you get here.”

I’m already sliding into my jacket before he hangs up. I walk to my closet and grab my gun from the locked compartment I had installed and check for bullets. Rusty curves around my legs, mewling needily as I move for the door. “I know, looks like you’re spending the evening alone,” I say, leaning down to rub his ginger head before heading out the door.

There is no telling whether the occasion Saint called me for will require a gun, but something in his voice suggested as much. Besides, as the club’s most experienced enforcer, there’s rarely ever a time when my presence doesn’t require the use of force.

Ransom’s office is on the ground floor. Despite being our newest member, Ransom is one of three men with an office at the club, Saint and the club’s VP, Knox, being the other two. It makes sense, seeing as Ransom is the club’s official hacker and money man.

The sight in Ransom’s office is unexpected, and a wave of confusion washes over me when I spot some of my MC brothers and their partners crowded into the room. The atmosphere feels heavy, almost palpable as I take in the scene before me.

Saint is huddled with Ransom by his workstation, their voices low as they stare at a series of monitors. At the far end of the room is his sister Chelsea. She’s burrowed in the arms of her fiancé, sobbing as Hound rubs her shoulders. There are other two women sitting together on the small sofa, their shoulders shaking as they sob quietly, expressions twisted in distress.

“I will never forgive myself if something happens to her,” cries one of them, who I recognize as Scarlett. “What if she’s… Oh God! This is all my fault!”

“It’s not your fault,” Jade, Saint’s wife whispers, patting Scarlett gently on the back. I can see tears streaming down her own face, glistening in the harsh fluorescent light of the office.

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