Page 40 of Protected By the Bikers Next Door
A long time passes. So much that I think he won’t show. But then the door opens, and a stooped-over man wearing a dark hoodie walks in. He takes one look at me, sunken eyes with large bags under them, filled with panic, and bolts.
Shit. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Instinct takes over, and I race after him. I can hear the footsteps of the others following close behind. A couple of them overtake me, and I lose sight of them as they round the corner into an alleyway. My lungs are on fire, and I have a stitch in my side. I stop, bent over, wheezing, and cursing my lack of athleticism. I can’t go on. I let the others race past me in pursuit as I try to catch my breath. It breaks my heart not to be a part of this, but I need to think of the baby.
“What’s going on, guys? Talk to us,” I hear Wolf’s frustrated voice bark in my earpiece.
“He’s on the rooftops. We’re in pursuit.”
“Shit, he just disappeared.”
“Jesus, this guy’s fast. I thought you said he had a limp?” one of them pants.
“I think he’s circling back,” another cries.
“Shit. We’ve got company,” one of the men says, and I hear gunshots.
“Fuck, Viktor must have eyes on this guy,” Wolf snarls.
“Harper. Harper, where are you? Are you alone?” I hear Hawk’s panicked voice.
“I’m here. Yes, I’m okay.”
“Harper, you need to hide,” Bear says frantically. “We’re coming.”
I turn and run back toward the bar, hoping the throng of customers will provide some protection. As I do, I collide with a shadowy figure dressed in black. My stalker seems as startled to run into me as I am. He’s a weaselly-faced man. I realize that the dark circles under his eyes aren’t bags but bruises. With a haunted look, the word “no” tumbles from his lips.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he says, his voice reedy and scared. With wild eyes, he looks around, listening to the nearby sound of gunfire and, further away, the distant sound of sirens. “If they find you, they’ll kill you, but if they find me, they’ll kill her,” he says cryptically.
“Who? Who will they kill? Who are you? What do you want?” I ask desperately.
“I’m sorry, Harper, I tried to protect you both,” he says, pulling something from his pocket.
I look down and see the gun in his hand.
It’s all over.
I close my eyes, but the shot doesn’t come. There’s a thunk, the sound of a steel bat hitting the man across the head. He crumples to the floor unconscious. Wolf stands before me, wielding the bat that knocked my would-be attacker out. I rush into the safety of his arms. Hawk and Bear quickly get to work tying the man up and throwing him in the back of a blacked-out SUV.
I move on autopilot, allowing the guys to take the lead, still reeling from the sudden turn of events. I’m vaguely aware of them checking me over and confirming to each other that I must be in shock before discussing the ambush.
“Viktor must have men tailing this guy, or he was somehow onto us and tipped them off.”
“I’m so sorry, Harper,” Hawk says, over and over, like a mantra.
“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have chased after him. You told me not to if something like that happened. I didn’t listen,” I say numbly.
I zone out again as they discuss what they’re going to do next. I rest my hand on my stomach and think of the life inside me, and of my little girl, safe with Pam at a sleepover. I think ofhow stupid and reckless I was. I put my unborn child’s life at risk and nearly left my little girl motherless.
***
When we arrive at the clubhouse, the guys carry the man down to the basement, where they tie him to a chair. “Why don’t you wait upstairs, Harper? You don’t need to see this,” Bear says.
“No. I want to be here,” I insist.
As always, I’m grateful that they respect my choice without argument. Hawk searches his pockets, finding a phone and wallet. Inside the wallet, the ID reads, Paul Henderson. He’s only twenty-five, younger somehow than I expected. The name isn’t familiar. With his hood down, revealing shaggy brown hair, I’m able to get a better look at the unconscious man. As far as I can tell, I’ve never seen him before.
The guys strip off Paul’s shirt, whether looking for weapons or simply as a tactic to make him feel more vulnerable, I don’t know, and I don’t dare ask. They’re consumed with a dangerous energy that radiates from them, a violent, barely controlled rage that I’ve not seen before, and I don’t want to risk unleashing it. Paul’s bare chest is covered with cuts and bruises.
