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  Copyright © 2017 by Adriana Anders

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Cover image © Ammentorp Photography/Alamy Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  A Sneak Peek at In His Hands

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my parents, whose support means everything.

  And to Corey Jo Lloyd.

  1

  The moment Ape’s hand landed on his shoulder, Clay Navarro knew the game was up.

  It could have been the look in the asshole’s eye that told him, or the way his fingers dug into Clay’s muscle way too hard to be friendly. Probably, though, it was that other thing—that elusive animal intuition that told you your life was about to end.

  He managed, somehow, to shrug off Ape’s hand and veer into the head, mumbling something about taking a piss. As soon as the door closed behind him, he leaned down and spoke into the button mic sewed onto his leather vest. He was frantic. God, was he having a heart attack? Wouldn’t that be something, to have a heart attack on the day everything was supposed to go down?

  “Shit’s hitting the fan here. Whoever’s listening, I need backup.”

  He glanced at the tiny window and considered trying to make a break for it, but there was no way he’d manage to squeeze through. But, man, he couldn’t risk the op at this crucial moment, even if it meant saving his skin. Not when they were so close to taking the sons of bitches down. There was no choice but for him to go out and face whatever Ape had in mind for him—try to stall him and bluster his way through. Whatever it was, they’d catch it on the wire.

  Back in the hall, however, flanked by three of his Sultans MC “brothers,” Clay was pretty sure there’d be no bullshitting his way out of this. There was a sick sort of glee on Ape’s face when he shoved Clay into the manky vinyl dentist’s chair, brandished his tattoo gun, and said, “Thought you needed some new artwork, bro.” After a pause, the man smiled and said, “How about your lids?”

  “No fuckin’ way, man.” His heart rate spiked.

  “Knuckles, then,” said Ape, and Clay knew better than to argue. There was a chance he hadn’t been made—that Ape was just being his usual sick self. Considering everything that was at stake, he had to ride out that hope for as long as he could, and if that meant letting the crazy bastard ink him up some more, then so be it. He forced his body to relax, forced a smirk onto his face.

  But then one of the other bikers grabbed for him, and it was all Clay could do not to go down swinging. He submitted at the last moment, pulse flying, reminding himself that he just had to make it through a few hours before it was all over, one way or another. The biker grimly held him, head locked so he was staring straight ahead, unable to watch as Ape pressed the tattoo gun to his finger. He tightened his jaw through the inking—a quick, messy job, even for Ape—and broke the hold long enough to glance down at his knuckles.

  DEAD MAN, they said in big, thick black caps. Fuck. “What the—”

  “Sit your ass down and stay put, or I’ll pop your fuckin’ eyeball,” Ape said through gritted teeth. He brandished the tattoo gun at Clay’s face.

  Clay bolted up, but the two MC brothers were on him in a flash, grappling him back down. One had an arm locked around his neck, holding his head still for Ape and that damned tattoo gun. Clay flinched away, tried to push free, but there was no stopping that needle coming straight for his eyes.

  He slammed his lids closed and prayed for a miracle.

  “What the shit?” Clay managed to spit out before Ape went to work on his eyelids. The only thing worse than the pain was the fear. He breathed through it as best he could, waiting it out as Ape inked him. He didn’t open his eyes until he was sure the needle was away—and even then he was left blinking and dazed, eyeballs stinging.

  “What are—” Clay began, fighting to sound normal even after all this—until he spotted Ape pulling out that little ax he carried around with him everywhere. He stiffened, fought, expected to feel the deep slice of a blade in his skull, to see Ape’s crazily grinning face through a film of blood, his brain matter scattered across the walls.

  He should have known better. Ape might be a total lunatic, but he didn’t do anything without Handles’s approval. The only thing he carved was Clay’s shirt. With the sharpened ax blade. The fucker sure had a flair for the dramatic.

  So maybe Handles didn’t know yet. Maybe there was still a chance he could ride this out until the end. Or at least until backup arrived.

  Something occurred to Clay’s crazed brain as Ape picked the tattoo gun back up and leaned in to etch something onto his chest. The asshole hadn’t touched Clay’s leather cut—the biker vest would have been the first thing to go if they knew for sure he was an undercover agent. Ape was killing time until Handles got back. Nothing more.

  I’m not a dead man. Yet.

  But if he wanted to convince his brothers he wasn’t a cop, he needed to work a lot harder at being Jeremy “Indian” Greer instead of Clay Navarro. And, right now, Jeremy would be pissed as shit.

  “The fuck, man?” he bellowed, elbowing one of the other men away, breaking free. The needle slid against his side, and Ape moved closer, pressed harder. He stank of stale booze and old sweat, piss, and blood.

  “Think we don’t know who you are?”

  “Are you out of your mind, Ape?” Clay reached for his KA-BAR—of course Ape would have been cocky enough not to take the knife off him—his mind flying through the opti
ons. Get the fuck out was foremost among them. He threw a knee to Teller’s groin, took a millisecond to enjoy the sick groan he got in response, and slid a hand into Ape’s filthy hair before the other man could react. Jesus, it was so greasy, he almost couldn’t get purchase. Finally, he managed and pulled the shithead into him.

  “You got a death wish?” Clay snarled.

  “Do you?” The man’s breath was fetid, rotten, like his mouth had never seen the business end of a toothbrush. “We know who you are, you fucking traitor.”

  “Oh yeah?” He inhaled through his mouth, ignoring the sound of the others gathering, and set his blade beneath Ape’s ear, right where the carotid would be in an actual human being. With Ape, who the fuck knew? The bastard probably had raw sewage running through his veins. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Beside him, someone moved, and Clay pressed the knife in—just a couple of millimeters, but enough to make Ape gasp and throw up his hand. “No closer, man. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on here, Ape?”

  “Got a call.”

  Clay waited, the early fog of nerves giving way to the precise, clear-cut vision he got when adrenaline did its job. Energy and strength shimmered under the surface of his skin. God, he was born for this shit.

  Clay asked, “Call from who?”

  “You’re hurtin’ me, man,” Ape moaned. Clay tightened his hold.

  “Shut up,” interrupted Clay. “What’s this traitor bullshit?”

  “Got an informant. Told us you’re—”

  Something hard and cold was pressed to his forehead. A gun.

  “Put it down,” said a voice right beside Clay’s ear, dark and certain. Fuck. Of all the guys in the club, Jam was probably the deadliest. Ex-military, ex-con, and racist as fuck, Jam had wanted Clay’s blood since the day he’d seen his too-dark skin. If Clay hadn’t saved his life about a year ago, the psycho would never have voted him in. “Handles’s on his way back. Told us to lock you up till he gets here.”

  “I’m not what you’re thinkin’, Jam.”

  “Not thinkin’ a goddamned thing…brother.”

  For a good five seconds, Clay waited, the barrel of Jam’s gun burning a hole in his temple and the blade of his KA-BAR ready to slice into Ape. Five seconds during which he pictured doing it—ending this man’s life in exchange for his. It was almost worth it. Almost.

  Except a whole goddamned operation depended on Clay getting out alive and giving his testimony in federal court. It depended on Handles going through with the huge deal that was set to happen in less than an hour—was probably happening right now, in fact. The only way Clay could ensure it went down as planned was by releasing Ape, because if he held on, he was a dead man.

  Finally, he opened his hand and let Ape go. The big dude came after him then, of course. All brawn and no smarts, as usual, but with Jam’s weapon leveled on him, Clay was powerless to counter. A meaty fist to the jaw, another to the stomach, and Clay waited, doubled over, for his breath to return.

  Fisting Clay’s hair in a parody of his earlier move, Ape leaned down and whispered into his ear, “You’re a dead man, Indian.” He spat a fat, sticky wad onto Clay’s face, wiped his own, and backed up a couple of steps.

  “Grab his phone and his weapons. I’ll lock him in his room till Handles gets back,” Jam threw over his shoulder before leading him away.

  “Not a traitor, man,” Clay tried in the hall.

  “Shut your face” was all the answer he got as Jam brought him to his room. Jam pulled the key from the lock, shoved Clay in, and locked the door behind him.

  Through the door, Clay heard him tell someone to shoot on sight.

  Jesus, how the hell was he going to get out of this? He turned to look at the room and found it ransacked. Fine. They wouldn’t have found anything incriminating anyway. Giving a hard exhale, he pulled the backup phone from his shoe and made the call.

  “Speak to me,” said Tyler.

  “Wire not working? I asked for backup thirty minutes ago.”

  “We’ll get someone in there soon as we can.”

  “They’ve got me in my room, under guard, while they wait for Handles. Did it happen? Did you guys get him?”

  “No. He never showed.”

  “Fuck.” Clay ran a hand over his face, surprised to see blood when he pulled it away.

  “Bread there with you?” Tyler asked.

  “Don’t know where he is. Why?”

  “If you were outed, stands to reason—”

  Beyond the walls, something blew, rattling everything. The air in the room stilled for a millisecond in that strange vacuum of suspension that happened before everything exploded.

  When the next wave of chaos came, it was in the form of shots fired outside the club walls, along with agonized screaming and shouts from all over. More gunfire in rapid bursts—club AK-47s, from the sound of it.

  Clay put the phone back to his ear and yelled through the dense fog of noise, “The fuck’s going on out there, Tyler?”

  Silence from the phone. Everywhere else was mayhem.

  There was nothing he could do. He was a sitting duck in here. He ran to the door and pounded. “Let me out of here. Let me the fuck out.”

  No answer from the other side. None from Tyler either when he redialed. Minutes passed, and the fighting continued.

  Was that his team out there, forcing their way in? Christ, he hoped so.

  The yelling drew closer, and his adrenaline ramped back up. He searched the room for something, anything, to fight with, and came up empty-handed.

  When the door flew open to show Handles standing there, pointing that fucking Glock at his face, the only thing he could do was turn and dive.

  Too late, though. Too fucking late.

  The first bullet tore into his back, pinning him to the bed, and Clay Navarro was a dead man.

  2

  Five months later

  The door to the clinic stood wide open, inviting in a way Clay didn’t entirely trust. It had all been too easy—the drive into town, locating the place, finding a parking space right out front. The few people he’d encountered on the sidewalk had been friendly, smiles so wide and open Clay developed an uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck—like the buildings were a facade and everybody actors, and he was the only one who wasn’t in on it.

  He was right not to trust, he decided when he reached the door, only to find a hand-written sign taped to the door. It read: CLOSED—NO A/C.

  Dead end.

  Yeah, well—not good enough. They’d need a roadblock to keep him out at this point. He tried the door and found it open.

  Inside, the place was dark and stifling. There was a reception area, waiting room—what you’d expect from a doctor’s office—all empty. He waited for his eyes to adjust and listened to what sounded like the scratch of pen on paper. He cleared his throat, and the woman hidden behind the reception desk jumped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  “Afternoon,” he said and walked farther inside, still squinting against the dark interior.

  “Hi there,” the woman said, her voice bright and warm. “Sorry to say we’re closed. A/C’s out, and we can’t see patients in this heat.”

  “You the doc?”

  She hesitated, looked to the side as if searching for reinforcements, then faced him head-on again. “I am.”

  “Any chance you could help me out?” He made his voice as light as possible, trying for friendly, even though it never seemed to work.

  “Do you have an appointment? Cindy was supposed to call everyone and—”

  He sighed. “No appointment. I hear you’re the only place around that does what I need.”

  “Oh.” She blinked, big eyes roving curiously over him from beneath blond hair that looked darker along her forehead. From s
weat, he realized, before letting his gaze travel down the rest of her—not a large woman, but curvy in a way that he liked. Something about the heat, her flushed face, the way the fabric of her tank top clung to her belly, and her hair stuck to her slick neck woke him up. She swallowed, her vibe slightly nervous. That was no surprise, since he knew exactly how he looked: mirrored glasses; long-sleeved shirt; short, dark hair; ink creeping up the back of his neck. Staring at her like some goddamned creep.

  “I don’t mind the heat,” he said, taking a step back. See how nonthreatening I am?

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “Cindy takes care of paperwork and invoicing, insurance and all that. I’m just not equipped to—”

  “Could you just take a look, Doc? Please?” he cut in, unable to keep the emotion out. “I could use your help.”

  She hesitated another beat, then softened. “What do you need looked at?” she asked, voice gentler. Warmer.

  Stomach a goddamned fireball of nerves, Clay reached up and pulled off his aviators. He stood there and let her see what Ape had done to him, what he’d have done himself for the sake of the mission—and waited.

  * * *

  The man who stood in her reception area didn’t look like he needed help. But then he removed the glasses, baring eyelids marred by ink, and George squinted over the desk at him. Taking off those lenses transformed him from a hard wall of masculinity into something more appealing, if just as intimidating.

  “The eyelid tattoos?” she asked, moving around the desk.

  “Yeah. Others too.”

  Up close, she felt the difference in their sizes more keenly. He was huge. “Lean down, please. Let me get a look.” Lord, what had the man done to himself? “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.” The word emerged on a half laugh, as if she’d surprised it out of him.

  “You haven’t had this long, have you?”

  He shook his head, and George’s brain filled with questions—some appropriate, some not. She went with the former.

  “How long?”

  “Few months.”