Chapter 2

The bikers closed in, their shadows stretching long and distorted in the hangar' s dim light. My mind reeled. It couldn' t be.

Eight years ago. A cross-country trip. My own bike broke down in a Nevada ghost town. I was alone, stranded. Then they rolled in, the Serpents of the Dust. Their leader' s bike had been sabotaged, an assassination attempt. His name was Deacon.

They put a gun to my head and told me to fix it. A rare, vintage engine. It was a mess, but I rebuilt it from the ground up, right there in the dirt. It saved his life.

As a reward, and to create decoys, he had me build thirteen exact replicas of his legendary bike. A secret I had kept buried for years.

Now, that secret was staring me in the face, ridden by men who wanted to hurt me.

"Wait," I yelled, my voice hoarse.

The men paused, looking to Ryan.

"I know your president," I said, forcing myself to my feet. "Deacon. I' m the one who built his bike. All of these bikes."

Ryan scoffed and stepped forward, his face a mask of contempt. He slapped me, hard. The impact sent a shockwave through my jaw.

"You think you' re special?" he sneered. "Every whore we pick up has a story."

"I' m not lying," I insisted, tasting blood. "Ask him. There' s a hidden compartment welded to the frame, right behind the oil tank. He keeps a photo in it."

My words gave him a moment' s pause. His eyes narrowed.

"A photo of his daughter," I pushed, remembering the sad story he' d told me while I worked. "The one he lost."

One of Ryan' s men, a brute with a shaved head, kicked me in the ribs. I gasped and fell to my knees.

"Liar!" he shouted. "Deacon doesn' t have a daughter! He only has a son!"

Before Ryan could react, the roar of approaching engines filled the air. Headlights cut through the hangar' s open doors. A convoy of motorcycles was pulling up.

Deacon. A surprise visit.

Panic flashed across Ryan' s face. "Get them out of sight! Now!"

Two of his men grabbed me and Wendy, dragging us toward a grimy storage container at the back of the hangar. As they pulled me past the arriving convoy, I saw him.

A tall, lean man with a weathered face and a long, graying ponytail. "Slim" Hughes. The man who held the gun on me eight years ago. Deacon' s loyal underboss.

Hope surged through me. I twisted out of my captor' s grasp.

"Slim!" I cried, stumbling towards him. "It' s me! Maria! From the ghost town! I rebuilt the engine, remember? The lifters, the custom pushrods!"

Slim looked down at me, his face unreadable. For a split second, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by a cold mask. He was under pressure, in front of his men, in front of Ryan. He couldn' t afford to cause a scene.

"I don' t know you," he said, his voice flat and hard.

He nodded to the men holding me. "Lock her away."

My last bit of hope died as they shoved me into the darkness of the container. The heavy steel door slammed shut, plunging us into a foul-smelling blackness. Wendy started sobbing, a low, wretched sound.

"This is all your fault," she whimpered, her voice echoing in the small space. "If you hadn' t been so famous for your stupid bikes, they never would have wanted you. We' d be free."

I didn' t have the energy to argue. I just sank to the floor, my head in my hands, the cold reality of our situation settling over me like a shroud. We were trapped. And no one was coming to save us.