McCoy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 3)

"That's the beauty of it," he declared, putting down my polish, interlocking his hands on his lower stomach. Carefree. So damn sure of himself. "No one will suspect you."

"Suspect me," I repeated. "Of doing what?"

It was then that a wicked smirk pulled at his lips as he moved to stand and reached into the waistband of his pants, producing a gun.

He dramatically lowered it down on the surface of my desk, gaze on me as my gaze went to the weapon that looked a hell of a lot bigger in person than it did on TV.

"I... I don't even know how to use a gun," I told him, shaking my head as I backed up into the wall.

"Finger on the trigger, aim, shoot, not too complicated."

"I have no aim," I told him, then rattled off something about a basketball net before insisting, "I don't shoot things."

"People," he clarified, making my stomach twist.

"I definitely don't shoot people."

"Well, tough shit. Time to learn to do some new things. Because if you want to see that sweet sister of yours alive again, you're going to take this gun, find some of the Golden Glades Henchmen, and put a bullet in one of their heads."

"No." The word gasped out of me as the weight of what he was saying pressed down on me.

"Yes. And you got... I'll be generous here and give you five days to do it," the man said, moving away from my desk.

"No."

"Then me and my men and your sister... we'll have a good time," he said, the implication clear as a sick smile tugged at his lips. "And after we've gotten our fill of that, we'll send you her head. Five days," he repeated as he made his way out of the salon.

"Why didn't you go to the cops?" McCoy asked when I was finished telling them about the whole interaction, leaving out the part about my near mental breakdown after he left.

To that, I let out a snort. "I heard this statistic when I was scrolling through social media one day. Police only solve like forty percent of violent crimes each year. Forty percent. So sixty percent of the time, you might as well not even go to them. I mean... I thought about it. Of course I did. That was my first instinct too. I'm not a killer," I told them, voice pleading for them to believe me. "But there was just... there was something about this guy that made me think he wasn't going to let me get away with going to the police."

"He was probably watching you," McCoy said.

"Exactly. That was what I suspected. And when twenty-four hours passed—because I had no idea who or what the Golden Glades Henchmen even were, so I needed to look into it—I got a note under my apartment door."

"What was it?" Huck asked.

"A picture of a clock that said Tik-Tok Tik-Tok under it. That was it."

After I said that, I watched as the bikers all looked around at one another, each sharing a similarly grim look.

"Alright. Brainstorm. Which organizations are most likely to use kidnapping and extortion to make other people do their dirty work?" Huck asked.

"Cartels," Eddie chimed in first, shrugging when everyone's eyes fell on him. "Grew up in a bad area, man. Some places, the cartels run everything. They'll kill you for sitting at their table at a restaurant. Got children carrying out hits and shit. Wouldn't write them off, man."

"Alright. Donovan, you want to look into the cartel?" Huck asked, looking over at the well-dressed man.

"Yeah, I got it."

"Seeley," Huck went on. "You are the one with all the contacts. Hit them up, see if anyone has heard of this kind of shit before."

"On it," the young Seeley agreed.

"My sister," I choked out, looking at McCoy. "I can't... they will hurt her. And then they'll kill her."

"We're not going to let that happen," McCoy declared, getting a raised brow from Huck. "We're not going to let that happen," he repeated, voice firmer as he looked at his boss.

To that, Huck sighed. "How many days in are you right now?" he asked.

"Today is day three."

"Okay," Huck said, nodding.

"I pass by Arty's, for lack of a better term, apartment on my way into the office," Teddy said, looking at Huck. "I can get him working on it."

"Appreciate it," Huck told him, taking a deep breath. "Any other ideas?"

"Booker?" McCoy suggested. "See if he has heard anything about this."

"I'll reach out," Remy said as he brought a piece of apple over to his parrot.

"Does your nail salon have security cameras?" McCoy asked.

"Not outside, but inside, yeah," I said, nodding.

"Maybe Arty and Booker can work on that angle together," McCoy said.

"How long is all this going to take?" I asked. "I mean, not to sound ungrateful. Really, I am more grateful than you can know that you are willing to help me after what I've done. I just... she's with those bastards," I said, pushing my plate away, feeling queasy again.