Page 1 of Axe-ing for Trouble
Prologue
Mila
The last thing I expected was to get shot at today.
In fact, I’d woken up feeling pretty optimistic. After months of patience, I’d finally had a breakthrough. I’d been allowed into the back room with the power players.
Yes, I was serving drinks and getting leered at, but I’d seen him. The boss. The guy I’d spent a year tracking down.
The plan I’d been carefully constructing for months was coming together. Using the Velcro tape I’d stashed for this occasion, I stuck my phone to the underside of my tray. Then I strolled among the power players, offering drinks while secretly recording as much of the conversation as I could.
There was no way I could have taken photos undetected, so I prayed the microphone I’d bought on Amazon would do the trick and committed all the faces to memory, doing my best to track ages, heights, and identifying marks for those I didn’t know.
Mapping out the organization had taken a lot of time, especially since everyone involved used aliases and code words that had taken me months to decipher. But I had photos and audio of most of them, along with details and dates.
To them, I was a ditzy bartender. Eye candy. A hanger-on.
I smiled and flirted and then conveniently left the tray on the stand near the poker table before I left the room. Being underestimated certainly had its perks.
It was after one a.m. when the game finally broke up. I’d delivered several rounds of drinks by then, but I’d left the tray in place, hoping with all I had that I could pick up all the important details.
I volunteered to clean up, then pretended to be concerned with counting my tips. While I puttered around, I slyly grabbed the phone and shoved it into my bra. I’d upload all these goodies to the cloud later, and then it was lights out for these fuckers.
I was determined to take them down. Every one of them. Because this was personal.
They’d come for my family. So I’d make them pay.
* * *
I wascertain I’d gotten away with it until Razor came banging on the door of my trailer this morning. I hadn’t left the bar until almost three, so more than anything, I wanted to pull the covers back over my head. But when he started spewing threats, I bolted up in bed.
Heart pounding, I threw on somewhat clean clothing and a pair of sneakers. Then I peeked out the window.
It appeared that he was alone, thank God, and his bike was parked on the side of the street in front of my patio.
He wore his usual leathers and sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but the rage was evident in his voice. Normally an easygoing guy, I could tell he was furious this morning.
“Who are you? Amy? Or is it really Mila? Are you a journalist? What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
My heart lurched. Aw, fuck. How the hell did he know my real name?
Had I gotten sloppy? Had my actions last night been sniffed out? I’d covered my tracks so thoroughly, fake passport and all, so I couldn’t fathom what had tipped them off. I’d been living as Amy for so long I barely remembered my real name.
And Razor, of all people?
Shit. It was time to get out of here. I’d put on a pair of sweats and an old sports bra, but there was no time to change. So I tugged a T-shirt over my head, then shoved my phone, license, and a wad of cash into my bra.
I was contemplating climbing up onto a chair to fetch the go bag I’d stashed above the loose ceiling tiles when the sound of tires on gravel caught my attention.
Heart racing, I peered out the crack between the curtains again.
A blacked-out SUV had joined Razor’s bike. It was parked mere feet from the door of my trailer.
It was official. I was fucked.
So I did what any person would in my situation.
I stole my ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle and took off.
