Page 9 of Misery
"Oskar, this is ridiculous?—"
He stops so suddenly I almost crash into him.
When he turns, his expression kills any argument I might have.
There's death in his eyes.
The kind of death that earned him his name.
"Those messages are from Los Coyotes. They used the same phrasing from Phoenix before they took the sheriff's daughter. Same pattern from Tucson before the massacre." His hand's still on my arm. Thumb stroking absently. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it. "They're not empty threats, Elfe. They're promises."
My blood turns to ice. "How do you know?"
"It's my job to know. To protect what matters to the club."
He pulls me toward the back exit. I follow. I don't have a choice. My legs barely work.
"My car?—"
"Leave it. Someone will get it."
We step outside, and the cool night air hits my heated skin.
I immediately see what shouldn't be there.
Dark stains on concrete near the dumpster.
They weren't there an hour ago when I took out trash.
They’re fresh, still wet.
A bloody handprint on the wall.
Half-hidden by shadow, but there.
Drag marks toward the trees.
Something heavy pulled away.
"Oskar, what?—"
"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to." His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. "Just know you're safe."
He guides me to his bike.
A massive Harley that looks like it eats other bikes for breakfast.
Chrome pipes. Custom paint. The kind of bike that says its owner does dangerous things.
He hands me a helmet, and it looks almost new.
The perfect size, like he bought it for someone my size.
Like he's been prepared for this moment.
"There's blood on your knuckles."
He looks down like he's just noticing. Three knuckles split. Blood dried in the creases. "Eh, occupational hazard."
