Give Me Hell

  “It’s not going to fall.”

  How does she even know I’m glaring at the clock? “It will. One day it’s going to come crashing down at the same time Sam walks past and it will crush every bone in his little body.”

  “It’s not that heavy.” She rolls over, used to my anxiety when it comes to our soon-to-be adopted son. I can’t fathom how parents can remain calm when their kid is one step away from being snatched or falling down one of those giant sinkholes that Grace keeps talking about. They are just that vulnerable. Anything could happen. Parenting requires constant vigilance. Whenever I lose sight of Sam for a single moment, a freaky panic overtakes me. Does it ever get easier?

  “It would only dent his head or something,” Quinn adds.

  My phone has not stopped its incessant ringing. I reach for it. “We should make him wear a helmet.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  The screen shows it’s Casey Daniels, my best mate. “I’m not,” I argue as I hit the answer key and put the phone to my ear. “What’s up?” I ask him as Rufus comes at me again, undeterred. With only one hand free, I can’t hold him off and he gets another lick in.

  “Get in the car,” Casey replies, his voice grim and leeching urgency. “I’ll explain as you drive.”

  I don’t hesitate.

  GRACE PATERSON

  I tug my legs through the pair of skinny jeans I left on the bedroom floor in the early hours of the morning. Last night’s party had left me with only enough energy to slide them off and leave them crumpled in the corner before I crawled into bed. I do the zipper and snatch my phone from the bedside table. There’s no time to lament on how the denim gapes at my butt cheeks. Cancer kicked me to the kerb. I beat it back and won, but there’s still a long road ahead. And that includes food. So much food we’re going to run out of room in Casey’s loft to store it all. My former model management agency would love the look I’m rocking right now, which disgusts me. Emaciated is always the new black and it’s not healthy. I’m longing to build some muscle on my frame and a nice round booty.

  I scroll my phone contacts in a panicked motion. Names roll down the screen so fast I have to scroll back up. Who do I call first? There’s no time to think about it. I pick and dial.

  My brother Henry answers within seconds and my stomach drops with guilt. He’s been like this ever since he heard about my diagnosis—hovering like a mother hen, accessible within a moment’s notice, attending appointments, blending me kale smoothies that have me retching more than the chemotherapy does. After all those years of travelling for work, it warms me to have this close relationship with my brother again. It just sucks huge hairy nipples that I had to get sick for it to happen.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, sounding equal parts anxious and husky with sleep.

  I don’t wish to cause him any alarm because I’m not an alarmist, but if there is ever a time to become one it’s now. “Mac is pregnant,” I blurt out, adding gossipmonger to my rapidly expanding repertoire of negative personality traits. “And you know that Jake is gone but Mac took off after him. Kelly called Casey and he was talking so loud I overheard the whole thing. Jake has been abducted and Mac is caught up in it somehow and something about Operation Strike and a shit show. I don’t know!” I cry, throwing my free hand up in the hair with agitation as I pace. I should be looking for shoes to put on my feet, but I’m so frazzled I don’t think I even know what shoes are. “Something is going down, Henry Bear. I don’t know what it is, but I’m scared.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Right?” I continue pacing on legs made of jelly. Mitsy snaps at my ankles and I do an abrupt turn to throw her off course. The psychotic white ball of fluff that barely resembles a dog wants breakfast, and I don’t have time for her demands right now.

  “Abducted by who?”

  “The King Street Boys,” I answer, having no idea who these assholes are.

  “Holy shit,” he mutters again, his voice all-knowing. Clearly he’s well-informed on who they are. “Does Evie and Quinn know any of this?”

  “I don’t know!” I cry, throwing my hand up again before slapping it down on my thigh.

  “Alright. I’ll call them. Just sit tight and stay calm, Gracie Bean. I’m on my way, okay?”

  Mitsy resumes snapping at my heels while I pace. Her jaw locks on the back of my ankle. I jerk my leg around to free it, but she must have a tooth snagged in the denim of my jeans. She skids across the sleek timber flooring, taking a long line of thread with her. The entire hem begins to unravel as she scrambles to her feet and runs off, panicked at being hooked. “Goddammit!” I shriek. I’m still attached and the thread pulls so tight around my angle it cuts off circulation.

  “I said stay calm,” Henry enunciates into the phone.

  “I am calm,” I growl as I reach down to yank the thread free.

  “It’s not good for your health to—”

  “Just shut your face and get here.”

  JAKE

  I sit on a chair inside a dark and musty, cavernous warehouse. My wrists are bound with thick duct tape to the arms of the chair. My knees are also bound, along with my ankles, to the wooden legs. They’re taking no chances with my potential escape.

  My head hangs low. I can’t hold it up. My left eye is swollen shut and my right is blurry. I took a bat to the head just above it. I can’t touch the area to assess the damage, but I figure the socket is fractured and it’s filling with blood. The simple white tee shirt I wore has been ripped off and TRAITOR carved across my chest with a sharp, double-edged dagger. A rib is broken on my right side. There was an immense crack when Boyd slammed his fist into my mid-section again and again, the sound like splintering wood. White hot pain turned my stomach inside out. It’s now a steady throb. I fear a rib has punctured my lung because there’s a stabbing pain in my chest every time I inhale. The King Street Boys want justice, and they want their justice in blood.

  Mitch had contacted me the same day we returned from touring with the idea of being bait. The gang has apparently been keeping tabs on me since I ran into Ross at Steve Valentine’s retirement party. Mitch advised they were biding their time until an opportunity became available for them to grab me. The Sydney police were going to provide them that opportunity because they needed me. Intel had given them the date and the time of the drug bust, but the location was still an unknown. With a small slimline tracker planted inside the lining of my shoe, I would be the one to provide that last, vital piece of information.

  A covert task force should be in motion right now with warrants, raiding homes and member lodgings, bringing in every single member, including politicians, celebrities, and government officials. If everything has gone to plan, this warehouse should be surrounded, the bust netting them Ross, our nefarious leader, Boyd, head of security, and several other high-ranking lieutenants who are in the back room of this warehouse.

  I honestly don’t know if I’m going to survive this and judging by the grave tone in Mitch’s voice when he sent me off with the tracker, he doesn’t know either. But there was no choice. I had to go through with it. I had to try.

  “You think you can just walk away from the King Street Boys?”

  The voice is deep. Familiar. It has me lifting my head with effort and squinting my right eye to focus on the man walking toward me. He’s wearing a sharp suit and polished shoes. His light blue eyes are cold and cruel.

  My reply is a grunt. It’s all I can manage.

  He gets closer until he stands before me. I gather all the saliva I can produce and spit on his shoes. It coats the expensive Italian leather, the bloodied mess oozing into the finely crafted stitching. It brings me only a small amount of satisfaction.

  He hisses and cracks the back of his palm across my face. The assault sends fresh waves of pain rolling through my stomach. He lifts his foot and wipes the mess across the leg of my jeans. Then he takes a step back, out of spitting distance.

  MITCH VALENTINE

&
nbsp; I stand there useless as my sister walks toward the building filled with a dangerous nest of merciless criminals. My heart is in my throat.

  If I intervene my career will be in tatters and Operation Strike, along with years’ worth of hard work, will go bust.

  My radio crackles. A solitary word comes through from a familiar voice. A voice that never fails to send heat licking down my spine. A voice of lilting Spanish from a detective in our squad who knows me better than I know myself. “Valentine,” she says.

  Her tone is thick with urgency, but there’s also encouragement. She’s imploring me to go. Gabriella Valdez is of Spanish descent, which has given her striking features. Deep, sexy eyes, sharp eyebrows that convey power and authority, and rich dark hair so long and wavy it reaches the small of her back. She’s been a detective in our squad for just three short months after years of undercover work with the Vipers, an insidious motorcycle gang that hooked her on drugs and almost ended her life.

  She’s also the girl I loved throughout my years studying at Charles Sturt University. I convinced myself that my love for her died a slow death when she up and disappeared after graduation. But her reappearance, showing up at my father’s retirement party, changes everything.

  That love reignited of its own accord like a fuse lying dormant. All it needed was one look, one touch, and that spark caught fire. But I can’t think of it now. I can’t think of her, or worry about how she’s stationed on the far side, long hair in a thick braid, torso strapped with a bullet-proof vest, waiting for the signal to storm the warehouse.

  All I can think of is that she has my back. She’s telling me to go. And she’s right. When it comes down to it—this bust, the eradication of the King Street Boys, my career—it all means nothing when it comes to my sister’s life.

  Mac being here is my fault. I shouldn’t have used Romero as bait. Not when I know how much she loves him. And not without telling her. She wouldn’t even be here if I had kept her in the loop. I would’ve expected it of my brothers. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t expect it of us. I made a mistake and need to apologise. We all do. Mac spent her whole life demanding our courtesy and respect and what we gave her was never enough.

  Now it’s on me to get her out, but I can’t do it alone. I click the button on my radio. “Valdez.”

  “Si,” she responds. Yes.

  My mouth is dry. I’m wrong for asking. But knowing that isn’t enough to stop me. “Back me up?”

  Her tone is soft when it’s usually severe. “Siempre, Mitchell Valentine.”

  Always.

  My chest aches with gratitude. Gabriella knows what family means. At least when my career goes down in a blazing trail of condemnation, and demotion after demotion, I can explain that she was simply following orders.

  I click the button on the radio to speak. I love you. Then I slide it off before the words escape my throat. Now is not the time. But later. Before this day is over, I’m going to remind her that true love never really dies.

  MAC

  I walk toward the warehouse. I have no plan. I have no idea what I’m doing at all besides not thinking straight. I don’t even know what I’m walking into. I’m unarmed, apart from a small Swiss army knife I found in the glove compartment of Jake’s car. It’s tucked inside the boot on my right foot. I know how to throw it and hit a target, but the blade isn’t large. If I want to inflict damage, I need to be close range.

  The sun has begun to rise yet the humidity is already intense. A blast of warm air blows down low across the docks. It sets my hair in a whirlwind around my head and across my face. If I hadn’t tossed back my head to flick the strands away, I wouldn’t have noticed it. But I do. The briefest flash of someone from the right-hand corner of the building, then it’s gone. Someone outfitted in skinny jeans, combat boots, and a police issue vest.

  Gabriella Valdez.

  What is she doing here?

  My mind races and my faltering pace slows. If she’s here in an official capacity, my eldest brother must be nearby. Along with their respective partners. And if they’re here, and Jake is inside with the King Street Boys, I’m walking right into the middle of something huge.

  But my legs don’t slow their pace. I can’t lose Jake. Not now. Not after all this time of being too scared of the future. I was so busy reading everyone else, I didn’t stop and take the time to read myself. I need him. My hand goes to my belly and my heart screams with fear and yearning. Our baby needs him too.

  “We need him,” I whisper to the growing life beneath my hand and continue walking. Everything else feels unimportant now. Irrelevant.

  “Mac!” It’s Mitch. His voice is unyielding and comes from somewhere on my far left. “Stand down.”

  I shake my head. I don’t know how to be the person who sits back and does nothing. My response is scratchy, like sandpaper, and the low wind almost snatches it away. “I can’t.”

  “You can,” he orders. “Turn around and start walking to me.”

  “You heard her. She can’t.” A man appears in the doorway. Just a sliver of him. His light blue eyes are hard and his brows drawn low. A tingle of awareness snakes down my spine. I’ve met this man before. I know I have. I never forget a face. My eyes lock on his tee shirt like a missile and dizziness engulfs me in a wave. There’s blood. Splatters of it. My gaze drops lower. There’s a gun in his hand. It’s pointed right at me. “She’d rather come inside, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

  The breeze pushes at me, and I realise I’ve come to a standstill. It’s Adam Rossiter. Ross. Eli’s brother. He’s part of the King Street Boys? Why? How? Jake was with me that night we ran into him. He didn’t say a word. Not. A. Single. Word.

  Of course he didn’t! cries my inner voice. What would you have done had you known?

  Something very, very stupid. Oh god, Jake. How well you know me.

  “Don’t stop now,” Adam Rossiter says. “Keep walking.”

  “Mac!” There’s desperation in my brother’s voice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. It’s all I have.

  Gunfire pings from my right. From Gabriella. It hits the door. Wood splinters in all directions as Ross pulls further inside the building. His blue eyes burn with cold fire as he aims and shoots right at my feet. I jump. And dust kicks up, spraying my shoes and jeans.

  “Try that again,” he yells in the direction of Gabriella’s position, “and I’ll aim a little higher next time!”

  My brother bellows a thousand different curses, his frustration evident. The words drown in the sound of thunder. The rumbling is incessant and loud, and it’s increasing with every short breath I take. My head turns toward the noise. The only part of the road I can see that leads to the docks is a crest. Bikes are riding over it and down, disappearing behind buildings. Hundreds of bikes.

  Holy fuck.

  Kelly Daniels has amassed an army of Sentinels, and they’re headed this way.

  This cannot be good.

  “Get inside,” Ross barks.

  I start walking. This is what I wanted. To get to Jake. My stride appears steady and my voice is sharp, but inside I’m nothing but jelly. “Where is he?”

  “He’s enjoying a reunion.”

  I step inside. It’s dark. I blink several times. Ross snatches me from behind as my sight adjusts. He wrenches my arm behind my back. I cry out, the pain like a sharp knife stabbing my shoulder. The cold barrel of a gun presses to my temple.

  “The beautiful and mysterious Mackenzie Valentine,” he croons in my ear. His breath is hot and close. I twist my head away and he yanks me back. Another cry rips from my throat. “I knew you’d show up. I know a lot about you. I’ve watched you. You’re quite the enigma. Beautiful, yet an utter bitch. Dominant, yet loyal. Especially to Jake. And now here you are, like a little lamb to the slaughter. Do you think he knows you’re here?” he asks, and then keeps talking without expecting an answer. “Let’s tell him. He’ll be so happy to see you.”

  Ross shoves me forw
ard. My heeled boot catches on a divot in the cement flooring. I stumble and it tears something in my shoulder. I hold back the moan of pain but tears prick my eyes.

  “Keep moving,” he growls.

  I swallow nausea as I right myself, and force my feet to push forward while I take in my surroundings.

  My eyes have adjusted enough to view the cavernous space. It’s huge. Almost the size of an airport hanger. It’s filled with shipping containers. Old rusted ones. They’re set in neat rows, and my gaze slides down each one we pass. I’m trying to scope any kind of exit but there is none.

  Ross pushes me forward again, hurrying me along. We reach a wall. It extends through the middle of the warehouse and ends three-quarters of the way along. Almost as if they ran out of material to build a whole one. When I’m shoved around the corner, my legs give out.

  Ross lets me go with a shove, and I drop to my knees.

  “Jake.”

  His name is an involuntary whisper from my lips.

  I barely recognise his face. Half of it is swollen. The rest is bloodied from cuts. His eye. His eye. The white of it is red and blood drips from the corner. It runs down the side of his cheek and splatters to his lap below, little droplets of life leeching from his body. He’s strapped to a chair—his legs and arms immobile.

  His shirt has been torn from his body and hangs from his waist in tatters. His chest is covered with dirt and sweat and blood. Traitor has been carved across his glorious chest in harsh, angular letters.

  Tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. “Jake,” I sob, louder. The man I love has been tortured and battered and rage burns hot inside me.

  His head lifts so very slow, the effort visibly painstaking. He sways as he stares at me. “No,” he breathes in ragged voice, his fear visible.