— Chapter 58 —

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A few minutes, a few hours... whenever I finally regained consciousness, it was to find a migraine hammering away in my skull and the black hood still over my head.

"I don't get why we couldn't just kill him," someone's voice echoed shapelessly in the darkness. "He can dance with the ghosts for all we care."

I wish you would have.

"Do you want that old man to have us all shot? Just shut up and follow your orders, Smash."

Finally, a voice I recognized—Marcus Danes.

I tried to move—to make some sense of my surroundings. What I found was the very simple fact that I was strapped down to a chair, wooden maybe, with my hands and feet tied to it in chunky ropes. Some kind of murky stench burned my eyes. A stench of smoke—stale smoke—sitting thick in my lungs.

Another person in the room picked up on all my struggling. "Fuck," he said, "I think he's awake."

I grumbled, "No shit, Sherlock."

"I still think we should kill him," Smash echoed from somewhere nearby.

I heard Marcus sigh. His footfalls reverberated through the space around us in a way that made the room sound like a metal cage. "We're not killing him."

Boo. "Why not?"

The redhead stepped closer to me and hissed, "Because you're worth nothing to us dead, that's why."

This was what I got whenever I tried to do a nice thing. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, not to put faith in people who could be bought by money. The root of all evil. Midas must have found Marcus at the police station on the night we'd been arrested. He waved around his money and paid Marcus's bail, surely, buying his obedience in the process. For whatever that was worth.

Marcus knew plenty about the Stray Dogs, and all that information was now in Midas's hands.

"Been a while since someone's had me in ropes," I confessed, doing my best to see through the threads in the mesh. "You know, people usually buy me a drink before getting down to the kinky stuff."

"Oh, haven't you heard?" Marcus snorted. "Chivalry is dead."

My cheeks strained into a grimace once the black hood was finally pulled off my head. Squinting against the light, I caught myself seated before the three other men—Smash, leaning against the wall to my left; another goon hunched over lazily in the corner, and Marcus standing at my feet, whose flame-red hair made him stand out like a goddamn traffic cone.

"Ugh," I groaned. "Can you put the sack back over my head? I liked it better when I wasn't looking at his face." Passing Marcus a flat glance, I added, "No offense."

The room was brought to life as the redhead pulled a gun from the back of his pants and cocked it at my head. Shit.

Smash started, "Boss, you just said—"

"Shut up," Marcus hissed.

"You're not going to kill me." While the glare on his face solidified, I tilted my head away from the gun. "Why don't you put the big kid toys away, yeah? Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

Marcus stepped out of the way as Smash came to his defence, landing a firm punch to my nose. My head shot back at the force. Marcus snorted. The nerves in my cheek went off like a thousand little explosives in a minefield, heartbeat pulsing in my eardrums.

I spat out blood. "That wasn't very nice."

The third goon scoffed. He was taller than Marcus, with blond hair and tattoos on his cheeks. "We're not very nice people."

You don't say.

My focus wavered around my surroundings. Where the hell am I? Some kind of metal box—a cargo container maybe, only it looked like someone had done some interior decorating... before setting the place on fire.

The walls were stained black with ash. Thick smoke still lingered in the air. There was a carpet beneath my feet—only it was charred to hell, much like the sofa in the corner, the table littered with burnt playing cards, as well as melted stereo and... is that a drum kit? Whatever it was, it was in cinders.

Where the hell am I?

My gaze came to focus on the cellphone in Blondie's grasp. "Are you nice enough to offer a phone call? I usually get a phone call."

Marcus snickered. "And you always get what you want, asshole?"

"When I ask politely." My lips upturned into a smirk. "But I guess it's really up to you. Because, while we're sitting here bickering, I reckon there's about three dozen Stray Dogs out there trying to hunt me down. And they're not coming to rescue me... they're coming to rip your heads off."

The redhead leaned down to meet my height, his gun held firm by my right temple. "You think I'm scared by a few mutts in leather vests?"

Something yellow caught my eye before I could speak again. Graffiti—a little alien marked in spray paint on the maroon wall.

And as the cogs turned in my head, I found my cheeks being tugged into a helpless grin.

"I think you're shitting yourself, Hotshot," I said to the redhead. "Because you know that all three of you are screwed unless I get that call."

Smash hissed, "Keep your goddamn mouth shut."

I struggled in my restraints. "Yeah, I don't really like being told what to do. Not unless I'm naked—and you definitely don't have my consent."

Smash snatched the collar of my shirt and beat his fist into my face once more. Blood trickled down my nose and onto my lips. I let go of a dry laugh.

"I've changed my mind. You—" I passed him a glance— "they can rip your head off."

The goon offered me a scowl in response.

"Well, would you look at that?" Blondie spoke, commanding our attention. The buzzing sound of my ringtone cut through the air while he read the name of the caller on the screen. "Chief of the Stray Dogs, calling at this ungodly hour? Ha."

I peered at Marcus with a raised brow. "Sure you don't want me to answer that?"

The phone buzzed and buzzed, and all the while I could see the cogs turning in his brain. He bit his thumbnail, tapped his foot on the floor, gripped tight on his gun—just to finally snap at the Blondie, "For fuck's sake, give him the phone."

Blondie scurried over and pressed the answer button in time to lodge the phone between my shoulder and ear.

I didn't offer much of a greeting to the caller. "Yeah."

"You haven't answered your phone in four goddamn hours! Where in Christ's name have you been? Your bike hasn't left the lot, Elliot found your jacket in the snow, and Chains all but put an amber alert out—"

"I'm not dead, Unc," I said. "Put Elliot on the phone."

Marcus scoffed and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Chief snapped, "Have you lost your goddamn mind—"

"Come on," I urged, still staring down the barrel of Marcus' weapon. "I don't have all day. No, really—there's a gun to my head."

His sigh on the other end was unbearably slower than usual. "Fuck, kid," he muttered. "You're going to give me gray hairs, you know that?"

I mused, "Just adding to the ones already there."

A dry laugh filtered through the speakers. Shuffling followed—then, finally, some kind of angel answered my prayers.

"Noah? Noah, where are you?"

"Hiya, sweets," I drawled, the bitter taste of blood still on my lips. Maybe I had brain damage. "Miss me?"

"This isn't funny!" Elliot huffed. "Are you okay? Where on earth are you? Are you hurt?"

A dry cough left my throat. Fresh air felt like a privilege I was being painfully denied. "I'm just peachy. Promise."

"You don't sound peachy!"

"Yeah—must be all the smoke." Shooting Marcus a glance, I continued, "Real ashy in here. I blame poor housekeeping."

Blondie snarled at me from off to the side. "Hurry it along, fleabag."

"Ouch," I yawned. "That's a new one."

"Noah—"

"Anyway, just calling to let you know I'm fine. When I get home we can start that movie you've talking about watching—E.T., was it? The thing with the... the alien, right?"

Smash pressed his brows together. "That's a terrible fucking movie."

"I didn't ask you, jackass."

The confusion was rife in Elliot's voice. "E.T.?" He asked. "What? Noah, I don't understand."

The dust forced another dry cough from me. Marcus waved his gun in my face and reinforced his stern scowl. "That's enough. Pack it up."

"Is that Marcus? Wait, don't hang up—"

Marcus snatched the phone from me before I got the chance to say a farewell. I gritted my teeth together but he didn't get the privilege of seeing my anger.

He opened his mouth to speak again, only the sound of metal screeching against metal made him shut up. As the cargo container's rusted door slid open, a rush of cold air flowed into the space. All I got to see of the outside was starlight and gravel before it was eclipsed by the gangster stepping inside. Behind him, a single bodyguard, holding an assault rifle close to his chest.

Midas grinned as his beady eyes came to rest on me.

He chuckled, "My, isn't this a sight?"

Hatred settled in my stomach. "Christ," I muttered. "It's the whole circus."

Smash punched his fist to my cheek again. Black spots fizzled into my vision—I was sure my eyes rolled back into my head.

"Jesus, man," I rasped, licking the blood off my lips. "If you're trying to break my nose, you're doing a piss-poor job. Aim more to the left next time, alright? It'll do you wonders."

The scowl didn't wipe off Smash's face.

Marcus tucked his gun away and ignored my snide remarks. To Midas, he announced, "We got him for you. Alive, as requested."

The older man beside him offered a shrug. "Yes, I suppose you did." Pulling an envelope from his coat pocket, he offered it up to the delinquent and said, "Don't bet it all on one race. Pleasure doing business."

Marcus and his two punks were out the metal door in seconds, rolling it shut behind them.

"You know, most people just send a text when they want to have a chat," I told the burly gangster. "Kidnapping is a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

"You seem to be handling it well, all things considered."

I scoffed. "Well, if you wanted to kill me, I'd be dead by now. I figure I'll just sit here looking pretty until you decide you're bored."

If I could just... reach my... lighter...

Midas fished some kind of metal case from his pocket and pulled out a fat cigar. Lighting it up, he smirked, "Perhaps I can make it worth your time."

"You already tried buying me off," I glared, suffering from an acute case of boredom. "My decision hasn't changed. You're not racing in my city, and I don't want your money."

He thought for a moment, pacing across the room. "No—of course, why would you? Money means nothing to those who see no real value in being alive. Like us, for example."

I shuffled in my chair, trying to reach my back pocket while Midas had his attention away.

"You're a contract criminal," I said. "Cash is king to jackasses like yourself. Don't try and make it sound like we share any common ground."

He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I'm only playing the hand that fate's dealt me, son. When you grow up eating scraps from beneath the feet of others, you do whatever it takes to get yourself to the top. If that means getting your hands dirty... then so be it."

"Christ," I groaned and threw my head back, "is this the part where you give me some kind of sob story about your traumatic childhood? Oh, save me the trouble and just shoot me now."

"Anyone ever tell you that you've got a smart mouth?"

"An ex-lover or two, sure."

He stopped pacing and sighed.

"I've met men like you before," he said. "Arrogant men. The kind who think they're untouchable just because they have a family name to protect them. But I'll tell you something, Noah Black. You might have the Stray Dogs at your every beck and call... but those vests they wear will never be bulletproof."

More empty threats.

My fingers finally clasped around the cap of the lighter. Bingo. Holding it beneath the ropes around my wrists, I did my best to get a flame.

"You don't scare me, Midas," I assured him.

"Not yet."

The heat of the lighter was starting to nip at my wrists. Good sign.

"Why am I even here? Did you really drag me out to god-knows-where just to give me a lecture?" My brows pressed into an irritated frown. "Threatening me, racing in my city, getting people killed for the fun of it... you disgust me, do you understand? I'm not negotiating with you, and I don't want your filthy fucking cash. Take your business elsewhere—preferably out of Boston."

His eye twitched. "Like I said, I'm not here to offer you money. Far from it, in fact."

"Well, I can't imagine I'm here just because you like the look of my face, so..."

He chuckled lightly. A hollow laugh, empty, the kind that made my skin crawl. "Well, I'm sure you've heard by now about that whistleblower you've got. A traitor in the Stray Dogs... one that answers to me, of all people! I'm sure if I gave the right order, pushed the right button—he'd shoot all your bikers dead right now while you sit here bound in ropes... looking pretty."

Said ropes were starting to loosen... but there was no doubt in my mind that I'd singed my skin.

"You're overestimating yourself, Midas."

"Am I?" The gangster shrugged his shoulders. "Human beings are like rubber bands, you know. If you pull at one hard enough, they'll snap. They always do. You'll be surprised how easy it is to sway people when you've got their lives in the palm of your hand."

"You think you're some kind of god?"

"No. Not at all," he said, shaking his head. "I'm just playing the board."

"Huh... and on this board of yours, where exactly do I fit in?"

Midas paced around the room, contemplating the question. "I'm here to offer you a new deal," he finally decided.

Sarcasm rolled off my tongue. "Oh, are you? This should be good."

He said, "I did my homework on you, young man. Tell you what, it was an invigorating read. Lots of good stuff. Like your family in New York—have you spoken to them lately?" I traced his every movement as he walked before me. "No? Shame. Jasper made captain of his basketball team yesterday. And Emma's teacher tells me she's excelling in her art lessons."

Every nerve cell in my body ignited. Midas grinned a serpentine smile.

"That's right, Mr. Black. I've got my people exactly where I want them to be, exactly when I want them to be there—like the man I have watching their house," he beamed. "I'd say it's about... one, two in the morning. Care to know what your brother's getting up to as we speak?"

"I'd choose my words real carefully if I were you." The syllables were tight out of my teeth. "You don't have many left."

He laughed.

"Alright, I'll tell you what Jasper's getting up to," he said anyway, clapping his hands together. "He's out shooting hoops in the driveway. Poor kid can't sleep I think, but he just got his sixth basket in a row! Goodness. I sure hope he hasn't noticed that shiny red dot on his chest, though..."

Everything after that happened in a flash of movement.

I tore myself out of the ropes and jolted up off the chair, shoving Midas back into the maroon metal of the carriage with a heavy clang. He flicked his hand and ordered his bodyguard to back off. Heat steamed out of my nostrils. Ash stained my wrists. Midas didn't show the slightest hint of fear, not even as I snarled and pressed my arm to his throat.

Fucking bastard.

"There's that fire everyone's been telling me about," he grinned cruelly. "Pleasure to meet you, Edge. But don't worry—I wouldn't dream of hurting a hair on your brother's head. It's a personal policy of mine, you see, not to kill women or children. Well—more of a guideline. Push me far enough and anything's on the table."

"What do you want?" I hissed. "Why tell me that?"

"I'm only helping you understand what I'm capable of. Because if you cross me, it won't just be your family I come for. I've got the resources to come for everyone. The Stray Dogs. Your uncle, the Chief. Angela, the aspiring nurse. The people at Joe's Bar—Pete and Eve. Not to mention the pretty bartender who works the counter... darling little Elliot Taylor. I'd probably take my time with him. I mean... heh, that pot's been simmering for years now, actually."

"What do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious? Can't you hear all those engines outside? All that yelling and cheering?" Excitement danced in his pupils as he spoke. "You made such a fuss trying to find this place, and here I am, offering you a formal invitation."

No.

"Yes. That's right, Edge." he grinned. "You're at my races... and you're going to race for me."

"And if I tell you to fuck off?"

"You seem to think you have a choice—strange, because I've already made it clear just how easy it is for me to get what I want." He pondered to himself for a moment. "When you were broadcasted trying to catch my riders that night, you inadvertently made it clear just how unstoppable you could be. Even thinking about it now gives me shivers. Vice President of the infamous Stray Dogs, racing under my orders! God, could you imagine the shockwaves it would send through this god-forsaken city?"

"But I wouldn't be racing for you, would I?" I scoffed. "I'd be racing for whatever fuck gives your orders. Tell me—what business does a contract criminal have with running a street racing ring?"

His shit-eating smirk turned my way.

"What's the saying?" Midas wondered out loud. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you?"

I glared. "Something like that."

"Well, why don't you let me deal with the big boys, eh?" He scoffed, shoving himself out of my grasp. Putting distance between us, he asked, "You're an insomniac aren't you, Mr. Black? Well, tonight you'll have the rest of the city to keep you company." He pulled open the metal door. "My gunman will show you to your new ride—first wheels hit the ground in ten. Oh, and kid?"

I watched him look over his shoulder at me, his slitted eyelids matching a wry smirk.

"Make it one hell of a show."