Long Way Home (Thunder Road, #3)(11)

I open my door as two doors on the Camaro open and two looming figures emerge. Nervous adrenaline crashes into my veins and I curse as I frantically roll up my window. The hand crank type, made in the ’70s, and it doesn’t go fast enough. By pure will alone, the window rises with a whine, and when mine is finished, I glance over to Brandon to reassure him we’re safe in the car, when terror seizes my lungs. The passenger-side door is unlocked.

The car shakes as the open hood crashes down. A towering man with weathered skin slams his hands onto my car and stares straight at me. He has on a leather vest, and I briefly close my eyes at the patches. Nausea roars through my gut and I fumble for my phone. This is the Riot Motorcycle Club, and we’re in serious trouble.

“Get out of the car,” the man shouts.

Chevy protects the passenger-side door and he’s surrounded, but he’s not backing down. His arms are stretched out wide, knife in his right hand. Fighting past the fear, I select the contacts on my phone, and right as I’m about to press Eli’s number, there’s a crash to my left.

My hands cover my head as a man takes a lead pipe and hammers it against my window. The glass cracks and he shoves the lead pipe against it again. Brandon whimpers, and I suck in a breath as I try to refocus on the cell, and it’s hard to do as shards of glass rain down over my head and into my hair. I push the call button, praying Eli answers.

“Get out of the car or we’ll drag you out!” the man in front of my car yells.

A scuffle, someone springs toward Chevy, his knife slices in their direction, but then two more guys join the mix. My eyes fall to the unlocked door, and I lunge. My fingers brush along the lock as the door swings open. Fear shakes through me when big meaty fingers shoot in and grab me. From the floorboard in the backseat, Brandon seizes my hand, and my heart pounds when I spot the horror in his eyes.

It’s going to happen again, and I promised him it wouldn’t. Months ago, bullies from school beat him until he could no longer lift his head. These men—they’re going to hurt him over something neither Brandon nor I have control over. Over politics of a club we have never belonged to.

They are going to hurt him, not like the bruises from earlier today, but like what happened to him months ago or maybe worse. Like those bullies, these men are going to make him bleed, and I promised him he would never hurt like that again.

The man pulls at me, and I release Brandon, my only hold to staying in the car, and drop my phone next to him. Without Brandon grounding me, I’m yanked from the car, and as I struggle with the man, I kick the door shut.

“Get on the ground!” a man shouts.

I struggle, wrenching myself from side to side. My arm breaks free and I swing hard. My fist connects with a face and there’s swearing. Pain through my knuckles, then pain from my scalp as my head is pulled back by my hair.

I gasp and fight to not make a sound and then scream when my legs are kicked out from under me. A blinding white lightning strike to my kneecaps and my vision doubles. Snapping, and then another wave of revulsive agony.

My shins hit the ground, and my heart beats frantically as I glance up at the older man with the weathered and dirty face. He has a blue bandana on his head and a gun in his hand and I can’t decide if I’m scared or numb.

Don’t find my brother. Please don’t find my brother.

On a warrior’s shout, Chevy strikes one man with a punch to the face and then Chevy is moving, pushing off two people, and my blood grows cold when the man with the blue bandana points the gun at me.

“I’ll shoot her.” The man doesn’t yell it, but he says it loud enough that the scuffles stop.

My mouth runs dry, and I find just enough courage to peek out of the corner of my eye to see Chevy hold his hands up in compliance. His knife is gone. Not sure if they took it or he lost it in the fight. Guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe none of it matters. Maybe Chevy should still be trying to fight his way out. Maybe they’re going to kill us both anyway.

Chevy looks at me and I tilt my head, worrying my forehead. They can’t get Brandon. We can’t let them have my brother. I will Chevy to hear my thoughts, to understand what I need. As if he can read my mind, he moves his head a fraction of an inch in agreement. Chevy voluntarily goes to his knees.

“You’re Reign of Terror,” Bandana Guy says to me.

My tongue feels too swollen to speak, but I shove out the words regardless. “I’m not Reign of Terror.”

“She’s not,” Chevy says. “I am. Leave her alone and deal only with me.”

“I know who you are, and I’ll be dealing with you soon. We only dish out the best for a McKinley.” A smile twists his lips as he keeps staring directly at me. His patch indicates his road name is Fiend, and I bet he’s real proud of his title.

With two other men standing on either side of me, Fiend crouches and I resist the urge to shudder with disgust as he pulls on a lock of my hair. “And you’re Frat’s girl. Red hair, crazy eyes. You have a brother. Where is he?”

Defiance swirls into my bloodstream, and I raise my chin. “He’s at the clubhouse.”

Fiend studies me. “Is he?”

Frat was my father’s road name and people used to tell me when he was in difficult spots, he was insane. When I was younger, I used to beam with pride at the idea of my daddy being the man who could look fear in the eye and laugh.