Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)

I pull the chain away, noting without satisfaction the deep, red pattern blazing over his throat. “What?”

“I didn’t do anything.” He coughs.

Jigsaw steps up next to me and backhands the guy. “Who were ya eatin’ dinner with then?”

“No one!”

I’m snorting fire as I wrap my hand around his neck. Much better than using the chain. His pulse drums over my fingers and I squeeze harder. So tight he chokes and wheezes. His Adam’s apple jumps against my palm. A little more pressure and I’ll crush his windpipe.

Frantic, he jerks his secured body from side to side.

His face turns purple.

“Rooster!” Jigsaw shouts. “Easy, brother. We still need him.”

“Where. Is. She?” I release him and he slumps forward—as far as his binding allows—coughing and sputtering.

After a few gasping breaths, Martin flashes a demented smile at me. “She’s mine.”

His claim jacks my rage to nuclear-blast levels.

“Fuck no you didn’t,” Jigsaw growls. He turns to me. “Search the house. I’ll work on him.”

Martin’s big, round eyes dance between Jigsaw and me, clearly trying to decide which one of us will inflict the most pain.

“No, he’s mine.” I barely recognize the savagery in my own voice.

“He hurt my brother’s girl,” Jigsaw says against my ear. “Let me handle this for you. You need to focus on finding Shelby. First thing she’s gonna wanna see is your face. Not my ugly mug.”

I nod quickly, taking a step back to give Jiggy’s vicious side some room to work.

Jigsaw holds the bolt cutters in front of Martin’s face and makes a snip, snip motion. “Hope you know your ABCs, motherfucker.”

The veins in Martin’s neck bulge as he strains and jerks his head from side-to-side. The effort of trying to free himself leaves him panting and sweat rolling down his forehead.

“That’s right,” Jigsaw says in a hollow voice, “I’m about to break your bones in alphabetical order and floss my teeth with your tendons.”

Behind us, Pants chuckles. “Yeah, brother.”

I pat Jigsaw’s shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

I’d been so focused on Martin, I hadn’t noticed Ice and T-Bone leaving the kitchen. They must be searching the rest of the house. I meet them in the darkened hallway.

“Nothing.” Frustration bleeds into Ice’s voice.

“Another bedroom’s over here.” T-Bone points to an open door. “I think her trunk—”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before I rush past him.

Inside the room, I stop dead.

It’s Shelby’s trunk all right but it’s empty. Lid open. Nothing inside. I stare into it as if I have the power to will it into giving up its secrets.

“Fuck.” I jab my hands through my hair, yanking on the ends, while my gaze frantically bounces over every surface. Bed, neatly made up. Rug. Nothing out of place. No signs of a struggle.

Where is she?

I run to the kitchen, muscling Jiggy out of my way. Lifting my foot, I slam it into Martin’s thigh, sending the chair sliding sideways. “Her trunk’s here. Where is she?”

In the short time I was gone, Jigsaw’s worked him over pretty good. Not with the bolt cutters—yet. But Jiggy’s fists are plenty lethal. Especially when he’s on a rampage.

Martin smiles at me, his split lip bleeding onto his tan pants. “You’ll never find her.”

“Playtime is over.” Jigsaw lifts the bolt cutters. “Pants, grab his hand.”

“No!” Martin screams.

“Start with his pinkies.” I slap Jigsaw on the back and return to the bedroom.

She’s gotta be here somewhere.

“Shelby!” I close my eyes and listen.

Nothing but Martin’s screams.

“Shut him up for a second!” I shout.

The screaming cuts off with gurgling yelp.

Ice’s shoulder brushes mine. “Did you see a basement?” I ask him.

“Yo!” he shouts. “This place got a basement?”

“No!” Jigsaw shouts a few seconds later. Guess the loss of a pinky finger motivated Martin to start answering some questions.

I stomp into the bathroom and rip the shower curtain aside.

Nothing.

She’s too big to fit in the cabinets but I check them anyway. Linen closet too.

The screaming from the kitchen resumes—although a bit muffled now. Combined with the harsh questions from Pants, and Jigsaw’s crazed laughter, it’s one hell of a psychotic symphony.

Coming out of the bathroom, my eyes zero in on the bed. The wooden frame extends all the way to the floor. No way to hide a person underneath.

Ice flings open a slim door. A shallow closet—barely the depth of a normal-sized hanger. With ruthless focus, Ice tears clothes out of his way and tosses them on the bedroom floor. Next, he sweeps his arm across the shelf and dumps several shoe boxes on top of the clothes.

Together, we search for any sort of hidden space or doorway—tapping on the walls, brushing our hands over the shelf and above the door.

Just an ordinary closet.

My gaze drops to the shiny hardwood floor of the bedroom, then shifts to the carpeted closet floor.

Odd choice of flooring.

I pull my knife out and rip up the carpet.