Ransom (Dead Man's Ink Series Book 3) (2 page)

Another gunshot rings out, and a shower of dirt rains down on me. That one was much closer, maybe less than twelve inches from my head. He’s getting warmer and there’s nothing I can do about it. If I start moving now, I’ll be giving my position away. If I don’t, he’s going to have to come down here and find me personally. The fucker had better pray he doesn’t have to do that, ‘cause I’m going to fuck his shit up good and proper if I lay hands on him.
 

“Sure you don’t want to change your mind, Mr. Preston? Hector will be far more lenient if he knows you chose to come and see him voluntarily. Maybe he’ll leave you most of your fingers.” He’s goading me now, trying to get me to respond so he can figure out my position. I’m not falling for it. My heart rate has leveled out, slowing to a normal rate. I’m in control. I’m not some unseasoned kid who’s gonna start begging and pleading for his life the moment things start to look a little sticky. I can lay here and hold my breath forever. Unless he comes and finds me, he’s going to have to get real lucky with that handgun of his. Even then, he’s going to have to shoot me in the heart or the head, because taking a gunshot wound to any of my extremities, my shoulders, or my stomach isn’t going to kill me, and I’ll still be more than able to kick his ass, no matter how much blood I’m losing.
 

Silence returns for a long while, drawn out and tense. I have plenty of time to work myself up, allow myself to get angrier and angrier. This stupid fuck has no idea what he’s getting himself into. If he knows my name, then that kind of indicates that he knows
me
. And if he knows me, he knows that I don’t go down in a fight. For
anybody
, no matter how big, small, tattooed, or pierced. He could be a professional UFC fighter and it wouldn’t matter. He’d have to knock my head clean off my body in order to stop me from coming for him.

A short burst of gunfire rattles out, and bullets strafe the vegetation to my left, closer toward the car. He’s getting further away now—much further away. Relief is a sweet, sweet thing. Looks like I’m going to get my mini hand-to-hand battle soon, after all. I risk ducking up for a split second, checking to see where the guy’s standing now, but it’s hard to see anything with the night so heavily upon us. Out here there’s no light pollution. The moon’s barely a slip of silver in the sky, a very tiny crescent. I can just about make out the shadowy outline of someone moving around up ahead, but I can’t judge distance. Not like this.

I have to move quickly or not at all. I have less than a second to make up my mind—do I stay hidden, or do I take this motherfucker out, risking whatever repercussions there may be from whoever else is sitting in that car?

I barely think about it. I’ve never been the type to sit on the sidelines and wait to see what happens. I’m an all or nothing guy. Leaving the camera and the rifle behind in the grass, I creep up the bank in front of me as quickly and as quietly as I can, and then I launch myself out onto the road, hands up, ready to pile drive my fists through this asshole’s head. I only need to stride about three paces before he’s right there in front of me, about my height and about my weight. He looks momentarily stunned as he whips around to face me.
 

I don’t give him time to lift the shining metallic object in his hand. I’m too close to punch him, so I grab hold of him by the collar and jerk him forward, bringing my head down at the same time so I can head butt him.
 

A head butt is like a bomb going off inside your skull. If you know how to do it right, you can cause some serious damage to a person with minimal effect to yourself. I’ve had a lot of fucking practice. The guy’s nose explodes when I hit him, blood spraying everywhere. He yelps in pain, dropping his gun, trying to stagger away from me, to hold his hands to his face, but I’m right there, moving with him, catching him square on the jaw with a powerful right hook.
 

“That one’s for you, shithead,” I tell him. “And this one? This one’s for your boss.” I hit him with everything I’ve got. My fist lands directly to the side of his head, just below his temple, which may or may not be a good thing. A temple shot like that can easily kill a man. He goes down, sinking to one knee, holding a hand up, as if that will be enough to ward me off. I’m more of a boxer than a UFC guy. Mauy Thai and kickboxing aren’t my wheelhouse sports, but I still use my knees when the mood takes me. I grab the back of the guy’s head, planting the back of my hand against his skull, and I lift my bent knee quickly, slamming it straight into his face. Something makes a sickening cracking sound, but I can’t tell what. He’s already a pulpy mess of swollen flesh, so I haven’t got a clue what’s actually broken and what’s just covered in his blood.
 

My opponent topples forward onto the dirt track, falling face first to the ground, groaning quietly. I have to say, I did think that was going to be slightly more difficult. He was full of talk; I figured he’d at least land a few decent punches before I rung his bell. He didn’t even get his hands up. Fucking pathetic. I grab his gun and make my way over to the car, where the driver’s side door is yawning open.
 

This is where things could get really bad for me. This is where someone I can’t see could shoot me in the face. The car’s high beams are on, blinding me, preventing me from making out anything inside the vehicle. Adrenalin is surging through my veins as I carefully head around the side of the car, hunched over, ready to stop and drop if I need to. Turns out I don’t. Ramirez’s guy was bluffing. He was alone all along? That was a ballsy fucking move. I get closer and check the back seat.
 

Nobody.
 

“Well, that was a crap shoot, huh?” I say. Ramirez’s guy doesn’t hear me, though, because he’s out cold on the ground right where I left him. I go back to him and sigh, standing over him, wondering what the fuck I should do now. If I leave him here, at some point someone will find him. The cutthroat, savage part of me thinks I should probably just kill him. Shoot him in the head with his own gun and drive his sedan out into the desert, have myself a little bonfire. But then again, I’m not the man I used to be. Killing doesn’t thrill or excite me these days. This guy’s out cold, defenseless, and yeah, my own thoughts from a moment ago replay in my head, chastising me: there really is no honor in killing a man without looking him in the eye.
 

Fuck
.

So what, then? I bundle him up and take him back to the club compound with me? Where the fuck would we put him? The basement underneath the barn is dangerously crowded these days. Our permanent resident takes up a lot of fucking space. And Rebel’s head would probably explode if I showed up in one of Ramirez’s cars with a body in the trunk. No. That’s not going to work.
 

Crouching down, I grab hold of the guy by his hair and yank his head back so I can get a proper look at him. His face really is a mess. He’s going to look like shit tomorrow, that’s for sure. The guy blearily cracks an eye, consciousness fighting to return. “Morning, sailor.” I grin and wave with my free hand. “Little sleepy, are we?”

“Fuck. You,” he wheezes. I think some of his teeth might be broken.
 

“Oh, I think
you’re
the one that just got fucked, sunshine.” My Spanish is better than okay, but I can’t make out what he says in response to this, either because the language is too colorful, or his jaw is shattered. “Okay,” I tell him, nodding. “I’m gonna pretend like I caught that and move on. Since we’re here, y’know,
chatting
, I have a question for you.”

The guy starts laughing, though it looks like it really hurts. He spits blood out of his mouth. “I ain’t…answering no questions for you,
cabron
.”

I tighten the grip I have on his hair, yanking his head back a little farther. Leaning down, I shove my face into his. “You will if you ever wanna see out of your right eye again.”

Both his left and right eyes swivel to look at me, so wide I can see the whites. “What you gonna do?” he snaps, bravado in his voice. “You ain’t gonna do nothing.”

I give him the same sour smile I used to give my grandmother when she made me eat her famous rabbit stew—the woman was a saint, but she couldn’t fucking cook to save her life. “Shall we find out?” I glance around, trying to find a rock the right size and shape for my purpose, but then I see something even better, far more suited to the task at hand. On the ground a few feet away lies a smouldering cigarette—the very same cigarette the guy lit when he got out of his car, I assume. How ironic. I reach over and pick it up, holding it in the air for my new friend to see.
 

“Do you think this would hurt?” I ask. Hovering it close to his face so he can feel the heat, I give him a closer look at what I’m going to be stubbing out into his eyeball if he doesn’t play along. “
I
think it would. But that’s just me.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” the guy spits. “Ramirez won’t stand for it. He’ll wipe out your whole club if you even touch—”
 

I do more than touch him with it. I roll the brightly burning cherry of the cigarette onto his skin, right on his cheekbone, leaving it there long enough to make him whimper in pain. A stream of Spanish comes pouring out of his mouth, but once again I have no idea what the hell he’s saying. His eyes are watering, rivers of tears running down his face. “Yep. That really looked like it hurt,” I say. Putting the other end of the smoke into my mouth, I pull on it, dragging the fumes down into my lungs. “So, yeah. I think I’ll aim a little higher next time.”

“Fuck you. I don’t even know anything. I’m just a fucking driver, man!”

I tut, giving him my disappointed face. “You knew who I was just fine. I’m confident you’ll be able to answer this question for me.”

The guy glares up at me hatefully. “Ask your fucking question then, and let me fucking go.”

I almost laugh at his indignant tone. “All right, all right. Your boss has been gone for five days. He just came back from...
where
?”

My captive scowls. “Who knows? I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“That’s a shame. And there you were, telling me your were a driver a moment ago. Drivers usually know where they’re driving
to
.” I roll the cigarette on his face again, grimacing—you forget after a while what human flesh smells like when it’s cooking. This reminder is unpleasant to say the least. Ramirez’s guy howls as I leave the burning ember on his skin for longer this time.
 

“Fine, fine! Fuck! He was in Seattle. He was in Seattle.”

I take the cigarette and put it back in my mouth. Seattle? That’s a little too coincidental. Too much has gone down in Seattle in the last six months for that to be a fluke. Ryan was killed there, after all. That was where Ramirez was due to be tried for murder. And it was in Seattle that I first laid eyes on Sophia. “What was he doing there?” I ask.
 

“He was looking for someone. Some old guy.”

“And he obviously found him. I just saw him being hauled inside the farmhouse back there.” I draw on the cigarette and blow a smoke ring, thinking. “Who is he? And what does Ramirez want with him?”

“
I
don’t fucking know what he wants with him!” the guy hisses. “I don’t get to question every single fucking thing Ramirez does. He says point and shoot, and I point I shoot. I don’t know why, man. All I know is that he’s some doctor. Some dude who makes sure people are put to sleep when they’re operated on or some shit.”

“An anaesthesiologist?”

“Yeah! Yeah, one of those.”

The cigarette is burning down to the butt. I only have another minute before it’s spent and I have to find something equally as effective to play with. “And his name?” I say. “I’m sure you know his name.”

“Alan. Alan Romera,” he says, spitting the information out quickly. “The guy’s name is Doctor Alan Romera. There! Are you happy now? Fuck you, man. Let me fucking go.”

CHAPTER ONE

SOPHIA

I used to dream about white picket fences. I refused to admit it, though. I swore I’d never spill my secret. Never in a million years. My sister, Sloane, wouldn’t have understood. Since we were tiny, all she ever wanted to do was follow in Dad’s footsteps and become a doctor. She was so driven and focused on her career that the idea of a husband and a family just never occurred to her. I asked her once whether she was going to get married and take time off to have babies after she graduated from medical school, and she just looked at me like I was a perplexing puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. Mom and Dad would have been thrilled to know I wanted to build a home and a family for myself, but I could never voice my dreams to them for some reason. They made me feel uncomfortable in a way that I didn’t know how to handle. Embarrassed, almost. Nearly every woman I knew wanted to achieve greatness, to strive for some seemingly unobtainable goal, to grow and better themselves. It seemed like wanting a family was such a small dream. Pointless in the grand scheme of things, as though being a mother or a wife was always meant to be a secondary role I was meant to play, and my main purpose in life was something far greater.
 

It’s laughable to think back on all the hours I spent slogging away over test studies and group assignments in college now, though. I never planned on witnessing a murder, getting kidnapped, being spirited away across two states, and falling in love with the president of a motorcycle gang. It never crossed my mind that I might end up running away from everything I ever held dear to me. That I would be laying in bed with a man who stole my heart so thoroughly that I feel like I can barely breathe without him by my side.
 

It’s been six months. Six months since Jamie found me. The best and the worst six months of my entire life. I’m used to waking up next to him now. I’m used to the roar of motorcycle engines rumbling in the dark as members of the Widow Makers MC return to the compound—I don’t even notice the sound anymore. I sleep like a baby, my head resting on Louis James Aubertin III’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, and it seems utterly normal that twenty armed men are sleeping in a bunk house only a hundred feet away from us. It’s strange how time and exposure to violence can dull its impact on you. It’s strange how one decision can change your life forever.