We’re greeted by shipping containers of various colors, stacked higher than some buildings. The rows and rows of them swallow us like we’re ants. A maze of steel and metal weaves around every corner. I feel a brush of his hand guiding me, his hands playing with the tips of my hair.
“Mm, you cut your hair?”
“Wow, you’re observant,” I scoff.
“I mean, there’s still something to grab onto.”Damnit, Jackson. Stop making me blush.
“Damn. I should have shaved it,” I retort. I’m glad it’s dark; I’d die if he saw how red he’s making me right now.
Suddenly, I’m yanked backwards and spun to meet his eyes. He tilts my chin. “We’re here for a purpose, but don’t think that just because you’re pissed at me, your ass isn’t mine. I don’t mind bending you over a container and spanking your ass redder than a Christmas light.”
He bends over a little, getting closer to my face. “I seem to remember someone loving thatparticularform of punishment.” I blush redder than a sinner in church. I look into his eyes, searching for a glimmer of a joke, but I find none. He still believes I’ll come crawling back to him. While my body betrays me under his touch, my mind is screaming to get away.
Jackson’s intensity grows, his chest heaving with anger. His face is sharp with intent, a light stubble covering his chin. I want to touch it, feel it scratch my hand.
I’m taken by surprise when his lips slam hard against mine. It’s needy, animalistic; I could easily get lost in it, but the withering pain of the past few weeks overpowers me. Anger bubbles as I bite his lip -- I can taste the copper, the stickiness of blood in my mouth.
“Mm, my little cub turned into a wild cub,” he says, grabbing his lip. “Not many people can make me bleed.”
“Consider that your warning. Stop playing around and show me what we’re here for,” I sneer back.
“Yes ma’am,” he continues, leading the way into a nearby building. I don’t know what it’s called, but it looks like an empty hanger bay, like the ones my uncle used to work in during his Navy days. We move closer, but before we step inside, Jackson pulls me aside.
“You need to stay absolutely quiet. Do not, under any circumstances, try to stop what you’re about to see. I would rather you live than be covered in bullet holes.” I jerk back at his harsh words.
“And what is it that I’m about to see?” I question, crossing my arms.
He doesn’t hesitate to answer this time. “Proof that we’re not your enemies and the seriousness of what’s happening. Jeremiah wasn’t lying; we know who’s behind it all.”
He doesn’t wait for my gaping mouth to snap shut, or for an answer. Instead, he leads the way into the building. The closer we get, the more voices I hear, and I pick up on the voices, sounding familiar from Jeremiah’s video.
The further we go, the closer the voices become. Jackson presses up against a shipping container, and I notice he’s packing some heat.
Maybe I should learn how to shoot. I shake my head. Focus, Bjorn. I focus on the voices, and peer around the corner. Three men huddle around each other, all wearing the same cut. I notice the emblem, a falcon clutching a human skull. Are these the club’s rivals? What do they have to do with the disappearances?
I look back at Jackson.
“Keep looking, Teresa,” he murmurs in my ear.
I turn back and try to focus on their conversation, regretting that I don’t have a solid grip on the language. I hear car engines start, headlights shining into the building. The revving of the engines signal the men to stop.
White vans. The shock of the truth is soul shattering.Jeremiah. I’m so sorry for not believing in you sooner.Everything is starting to make sense, to become real. It’s not a game anymore. The vans halt and I want to look closer, but Jackson grips me not to move.
A man steps out, his head shaved, a black bandana wrapped around it. He’s dressed in the same cut and dirty jeans as the rest of the men. Tattoos pepper his forehead and the corner of his eye. Something about him feels familiar, but my mind draws a blank. The slamming of doors makes me wince. My heart’s racing out of my chest.
Bandana lights a cigarette, taking a small drag as he approaches the group. I can make out a word or two of their conversation, something about money, people, and maybe bitches, but it’s been a while.
“Any more commands, boss?” one of the men asks Bandana.
“Nah, same old same old from the bitch herself.” Bandana takes another drag of his cigarette. The feeling of uneasiness creeps up my chest.
“Ready to move these people? That idiotfrom that night cannot happen again,” Bandana announces.
I jerk away from Jackson. These assholes were the ones who hurt Jeremiah. I’m jerked back into him.
“You don’t listen. You can’t do anything right now. You’ll get your moment,” Jackson whispers in my ear.
The little distraction almost makes me miss their next move. The vans reverse further into the hanger bay. The men crowd around the back, swinging the doors open to reveal dozens of people, all knocked out cold.