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No, I can’t tell the truth. I don’t want to. The Steel Knights are doing actual good for the community, for the people of Everton. I’d rather be their advocate.
“I’ll blame amnesia,” I whisper to myself, barely registering the subtle light growing somewhere behind me. Amnesia always works. I’ll tell them I conked my head or something.
The sound of an engine startles me.
I jump to the side of the road as the car stops a few yards away from me. It’s a black sedan with New Hampshire plates. A man steps out of the driver’s side, looks at me, and smiles.
“You’re Ariana David. I wasn’t sure at first,” he says, his voice soft and mellow.
“Do I know you?” I ask, trembling with equal parts fear and relief.
I can’t make out his features in the dark. The moon and stars hide behind thickening clouds, and I can smell rain coming. I can see enough of the driver to gradually become more at ease. He’s tall and well-built. His black suit looks custom-tailored, the top buttons of his shirt left loose. Between the car and the way he’s dressed, it makes him seem official.
“No, but I definitely know you,” he replies with a warm, reassuring smile. “I’m Eric Masterson. Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’ve been watching that clubhouse for about a month now.”
“Oh.”
All I can do is stare at him in genuine disbelief. I know from what the guys told me that no form of law enforcement could enter the top floor of the clubhouse without a search warrant. And that the MC’s lawyers were working overtime to clog the local court with enough injunctions and complaints to keep the cops and the Feds busy enough not to have sufficient cause for busting down every door, including the one to my room.
“I couldn’t come in legally,” he says, as if reading my mind.
“Yeah, I figured that out,” I mutter. “Have you been following me?”
“I honestly wasn’t sure it was you,” Masterson says, then shows me his badge. It looks legitimate enough from where I’m standing, yet there’s a part of me that says to keep still, to maintain a safe distance until I’m sure that I can trust him. “I saw you running out of the parking lot, but I couldn’t exactly approach you right then and there, either.”
“How long have you been following me?”
“About forty-five minutes.”
“It feels like I’ve been walking longer than that.”
“I can imagine,” he says. “You were locked in there this whole time?”
I nod once, already preparing my statement in my head. The sucky part is that this guy already knows that the Steel Knights were holding me. So, keeping their name out of the whole thing has just gone out the window. A new plan is needed, and my mind isn’t working fast enough at the moment. “Yeah,” I say. “I was able to climb out the window.”
“You couldn’t do that before? Did they have someone in the room with you at all times?”
“No, there were bars on the window. It took me a while to get the frame loose so that I could get out,” I tell him.
He smiles, genuinely impressed. “You were patient.”
“I didn’t have any other choice,” I say.
Masterson takes a step forward, and I instinctively move back. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re safe now, Ariana. And your father will be over the moon to see you again. I’m sorry I didn’t approach you sooner, but I needed to be sure it was you. Had you been some other girl, I ran the risk of the Steel Knights finding out that I was watching the clubhouse.”
“They know they’re being watched,” I bluntly reply.
“Not by the Feds, they don’t,” he shoots back with a cool grin. “The mayor looped us in about two weeks ago. We agreed to keep everything quiet while the lawyers battle it out in court. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. I guess. Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Can I give you a ride back into the city?”
I should be jumping into this man’s arms, thrilled to have been found. Maybe my time with Sky, Kendric, and Raylan has left me overly suspicious of absolutely everyone. All that talk about the so-called Black Hand, the conspiracy theories … may have burrowed deep enough into my mind to have me feeling paranoid before a man who is clearly here to save me. I shake the thoughts away and move toward his car.
“Yes, take me home, please,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You really don’t need to thank me,” he replies, opening the passenger door for me.
