Page 20 of Damascus & The Wildfire
I squeezed the trigger, and the gunshot blasted through Danny’s skull.
Chapter Seven
I barely remembered tearing out of the junkyard on my Harley.
My mind raced ahead of my body as I thought about Kenna at the police station, clearly shaken. The thought twisted my gut, mixing fury with a fierce protectiveness. I needed to see her, to touch her, to know she was safe.
I hit over a hundred and ten on the highway, the wind screaming in my ears and suffocating my lungs. I took the downtown exit at a reckless speed, weaving through traffic with practiced ease, and skidded to a stop in front of the police station, parking my bike right on the sidewalk, ticket be damned.
Inside, the station smelled of burnt coffee and sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I’d been here before, cuffed in a corner, staring at the scuffed linoleum for hours before the club lawyer sprung me.
I ignored the stares my cut drew as I scanned the room for Kenna. I found her huddled in the corner, her fiery red hair a beacon in the drab space with lines of evaporating fear still etched across her face. Without a word, I crossed the room and pulled her into my arms.
“Hey, are you OK?” I asked, looking into her eyes.
She nodded, tears rimming her lashes. “Yeah,” she said in a shaky voice.
My gaze grazed across her body. Red, hand-shaped marks covered one arm. Scabs peppered her palms. Her dress slacks were torn and bloody at the knees. I tipped her chin up, noticing a bruise forming under her jaw.
“He fucking hit you?”
Tears broke free and streamed down her cheeks. “I tried to fight back when he grabbed my purse. He punched me and then pushed me to the ground.”
My jaw flexed as I tamped down the fury inside me. I kept my arm around her, pulling her close as I looked across the room. Then I spotted Detective Rodriguez—a burly man with a bike of his own, who’d brought it to Bones once for new pipes. He’d always treated us fairly, not judging the Mavericks or assuming we were criminals. He’d even occasionally given us information that proved helpful.
“Detective Rodriguez,” I called, my voice steady despite the rage inside me.
He glanced up, recognition flashing across his face. His eyes flicked between Kenna and me, understanding dawning as he realized she was associated with the club.
“Hatchet, it’s good to see you.” He extended a meaty hand.
I shook it. “Do you have any leads on this?”
The detective shook his head. “Not my case. But I suspect it was a street gang.”
“Was anything caught on camera?”
He shrugged. “No city cameras. Maybe a local business. Don’t hold your breath, though. You know how it is. People get mugged every day down here. The case will get buried in days.”
I grabbed a scrap of paper from a nearby desk and scribbled my number. “Call me if you hear anything. We can’t have thugs beating our women up downtown. If PD isn’t going to handle this, the Mavericks will.”
The detective stared at me for a moment, his dark-brown eyes calculating. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the increase in violent crime over the past month?”
I nodded. It was all the news anchors talked about every morning.
“There’s a new gang in the Third Ward,” Rodriguez continued. “They call themselves the Jackals. They’re young and stupid. Reckless. Based on the colors Ms. Walsh described, that’s who you’re looking for.”
“Thanks.” I clapped the detective on the shoulder. “Bring your bike back in soon. The next upgrade’s on us.”
Once we stepped into the sun, I took another look at Kenna. Her skin was pale, her eyes still watery. I brushed a thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear. The light caught the fine dusting of freckles across her nose, making her look younger and more vulnerable.
“Let’s get you home,” I murmured.
She blinked up at me. “Did you bring my keys?”
I shook my head. “We’ll get a prospect to pick it up later. You shouldn’t be driving.” I straddled my bike and handed her a helmet from the saddlebag. “Get on.”
I clenched my jaw as I watched her shaky fingers fumble with the helmet strap.
