“Git,” she told me, flapping her hand at me. “Scoot. Skedaddle. I’ve got you covered.”

• • •

Duck lived out toward Rathdrum, in an old house that’d seen better days. He had about twenty acres, most of it prairie. I’d gotten the address from London, who’d told me to call her once I figured things out.

It’d rained that morning and, just my luck, the driveway was a full-on mud pit. Painter’d parked his bike near the gate, next to the rusty old Chevy Duck drove when he couldn’t ride. Eyeing the muck, I decided to follow his lead, pulling in next to him.

As I stepped out, my faded Converse squooshed down into the loose earth. Ick. Painter was gonna owe me for this.

So was Duck.

The house was set back far enough from the road that it took me a good ten minutes to walk there, including the time I lost falling on my ass, trying to get back up, and then falling down again—this time on my face. I checked my phone. Still nothing. If I got up there and found Painter and Duck sitting on the porch sharing a beer, they wouldn’t need to worry about his catheter wound killing him.

I’d do it with my own bare hands.

The house came into sight, and I was about twenty feet away when I heard the shouting.

“When it’s time to kill him, I want to do it!” a woman yelled. What the hell—was that Deanna?

A strange man’s voice answered from the back of the house, although I couldn’t make out the words. Holy shit. Pulling out my phone, I sent London a quick text.

ME: There’s something wrong here at Ducks house. I don’t know what yet but I think you should call Reese

Silencing the phone, I slipped it back into my pocket, then started working my way around the house toward the back. It didn’t take long to find a window, which thankfully had been left open a crack. Dropping down, I crawled forward through the wet earth, then slowly raised my head to peek inside.

Ah, fuck.

This was bad. Really bad. Like, pissing-your-pants bad. Painter was sitting in the center of Duck’s kitchen in a wooden chair, hands cuffed behind his back. His legs had been tied to the chair’s legs and there was a ragged bandanna gagging his mouth. Beyond him, lying across the floor, was Duck. His eyes were closed and there was a massive bruise forming on his face. Even worse, I saw a dark stain near his groin.

Blood or pee.

I had the feeling it was blood, although there wasn’t enough for a full bleed out. Not yet. That could change any minute, though. I looked at Painter again. This time his eyes met mine. He gave his head a fast, hard shake, then jerked his chin at me. The message was clear—he wanted me to get out. I lifted my hand to my ear, pretending it was a phone, letting him know I was calling for help. Dropping back down, I pulled out my cell and sent London another message, copying Reese.

ME: Painter is being held prisoner in Ducks house. I’m outside looking in. Duck is down. Send help NOW

The door from the dining room to the kitchen crashed open, and then a big man I didn’t recognize walked into the room, followed by Deanna. She looked different somehow—tougher. She walked with more swagger and held a gun. Standing over Duck, she casually kicked him in the balls.

My breath caught as I watched the stain, waiting for it to widen—how much abuse could his artery take?

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a hell of a long time,” she said. The big guy stepped over to her, pulling her in for a hug.

“Sorry, Talia girl,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

“God, his breath was so fucking bad in the mornings, Marsh,” she said, sounding strangely childish, a whiny little girl. “I swear, blowing him was better than kissing him.”

“It’s over now,” he replied, giving her another squeeze. Then he let her go, stepping back over to Painter. He reached out, slapping his face so hard it rocked the chair. “You fucked me up, Levi. Five fucking years I sat in a cell because of you. I already killed your friend, and now it’s your turn. You got no idea how much I enjoyed cutting him up. I’m gonna have so much fun playing with you.”

With that, he pulled out a pocket knife and flipped it open, slowly slicing across Painter’s forehead, right along the hairline. Blood welled to the surface, sliding down his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck! No way I could sit here and watch them kill him. Like hell.

“Thought I might start by scalping you.”

Talia grunted approvingly, and I dropped down below the window, wondering what the hell I should do—Reese would send help, but how long would it take? Most of the guys were out of town . . . Should I call the cops?

No. Painter didn’t like cops. But Painter was about to end up dead. But hell, even if I called the cops, would they get here in time to save him? If only I had some kind of weapon . . . like the gun hidden on his bike. Could I save him and Duck with it? I wasn’t sure, but I did know one thing—I wasn’t going to save them by doing nothing.

I scrambled along the side of the house, slipping in the mud every few feet. Then I was off and running toward the parked vehicles. The mud sucked at my shoes and I fell twice along the way. None of it mattered. Time was passing—way too much time—and for all I knew they were already dead. After what felt like a year, I finally reached the bike, skidding to a stop next to it. At first I couldn’t find the latch because my fingers were all muddy and numb from the cold. Then it fell open and I was grabbing the gun. With shaking hands, I pulled back the slide, thankful I’d taken the self-defense classes after Todger’s attack last year.