Making of Them (Beating the Biker 3)

“The waterfront?” said Chrissy.

Saks nodded.

“You don’t like the ambiance,” Kovel sneered, “go back to America.”

“We will when we take care of business.”

Kovel barked out a laugh. “Like you’re going to get out of this.”

They entered a warehouse district, where the buildings rose up around them. The car stopped, and Chrissy squeezed his thigh.

“It’s okay, babe,” Saks reassured her.

“Yeah, sure it is,” Kovel retorted as Chrissy climbed out of the car. “What’s she doing?”

“Telling the driver help your drunken ass out. Wait right here.”

The driver looked puzzled as Saks climbed out of the car and motioned back toward Kovel with a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s just too drunk, man. He’s too much for me to handle. Maybe you can do something to get him out.”

The driver leaned forward into the back seat to assess the situation, just as Saks slammed the heel of his boot into his rear. The poor driver tumbled forward, and collapsed in a heap on top of the indignant Kovel. Saks picked up the struggling man’s feet and pushed him further inside before slamming the door shut.

“Chrissy?” She had, in the commotion, jumped up to the driver’s seat.

“Childproof locks engaged, sweetie,” she said as she jumped back out, “but they’re making a racket on the glass.”

“Let them. They’re the idiots riding around in a vehicle with bulletproof glass. You stay here.”

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not leaving me out here with those creeps.”

“They can't do anything to you. You’ll be safe.”

“Sure, but they can still annoy me. But it doesn’t matter—I’m still not staying here while you go in there.”

Saks shook his head. No way was he going to lead Chrissy into danger. But before he could open his mouth to argue, a door at the side of the closed bay creaked opened.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Chrissy hadn’t heard a thing. All she knew was one moment she’d been talking with Saks at the car’s edge, and the next he’d yanked her down, using the vehicle as a shield.

The alleyway was eerily quiet, save for the wash of nearby gentle waves crashing on the shore and the occasional gull soaring overhead. Her head tilted, straining to hear whatever could be coming, when a voice jolted her so roughly Saks squeezed her arm in reassurance.

“Kovel!” A string of angry Russian spilled from the person’s lips, slamming Chrissy’s heart against her ribcage. As cautiously as she could, she poked her head around the back end of the car and spotted a portly man emerging from the shadows into the light of the alley’s single floodlight.

Each figure trailing behind was clearly visible only for a moment, when they stepped beneath the bright spotlight. First was a disheveled, ghostly Jessica that had Chrissy slamming her hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet. The woman’s hands were tied behind her back, and she hobbled along with a limp that had never been there before. Even more shocking than the sight of her was the sight of a restrained Pearson, blood running down his face and defeat all over him. Never had she seen him so withdrawn as in that moment, but the last man made it all clear. Whoever he was, he held a gun at Pearson’s head.

The banging on the windows gained the immediate attention of the older man in front, who Chrissy guessed was Kosikov.

“What the hell,” the man muttered. In a hurry, he rushed to the door and yanked on the locked handles. “Open the doors, you idiots!”

From behind the protection of the car, Saks rose. “I dare you to move,” he growled as he lifted the gun and pointed it directly at the man’s head.

With the car between him and Saks, there was little the man could do except curse.

“Come here, Jess,” Saks called out. “And you,” his chin jutted out toward the man behind Pearson. “You move and I’ll shoot your boss, then you. Now drop your gun.”

“Do it,” Saks’ prisoner gritted out.

The young man hesitated, the gun shaking in his hand, before finally he bent down and dropped it to the pavement. In that very moment, Pearson ran. His bare feet slapped the pavement in his hurried escape; Kosikov’s angry voice sent spittle across the car’s roof. “Get him! Fucking kill him!”