Page 102 of Rage

The bouncer hauls me from the trunk. My feet hit the ground. I try to shake off his grip, but his fingers dig into my biceps hard enough to bruise.

“You give us any trouble and we’ll inject you,” Brooks says. “You got that?”

I look at him over my shoulder. His face is stark in the glare of the flashlight beam, his forehead slicked with sweat. I see stress in his features. His eyes are furious as they climb over me. “You dumb bitch. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What you’ve put into motion?”

The bouncer seems more relaxed. Shifting his hand to the back of my neck, he squeezes so hard my spine tingles. I’m pushed into a walk. We’re in a gravel parking lot, approaching a tall chain-link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire. Keys jangle as Brooks punches numbers into the gate combination lock. Beyond, I see a large metal building, a light burning above the man door.

The bouncer pushes me through the gate. I hear my breaths rushing in and out. My nose is running onto the tape covering my mouth. I’m aware of Brooks locking the gate behind us and the sense of being trapped nearly overwhelms me. As we cross to the building, I look around to get my bearings, take in as many details as I can. A black wall of trees on the horizon to my left. I hear the low drum of music in the distance. I glance right. At the sight of the RV, I realize we’re in the back lot of The Cheetah Lounge. For the life of me, I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

Brooks unlocks the door and the bouncer forces me inside. Overhead lights spill down from industrial-type lighting, illuminating a large interior that’s part living room, part office space. To my left is a grouping of furniture—a sectional sofa, coffee table, and large-screen TV. There’s a small kitchen, replete with a table and chairs, a stove, and a refrigerator. To my right is a glassed-in office containing a desk, file cabinet, and high-back chair. Beyond, I see a narrow hall with three doors, each affixed with a sleek keypad for locking from the outside. In the far corner, there’s some type of stage with overhead spotlights and a fireman’s pole. An antique-looking chaise lounge is parked against the wall.

Brooks goes directly to the kitchen without speaking or looking at me. The bouncer wraps his hand around my arm and muscles me over to the sofa.

“Sit.” He tries to force me onto it, but I brace my legs and manage to stay on my feet.

“Have it your way.” Grasping the cuffs at my wrists, he pushes them up toward my shoulder blades. Pain streaks across my shoulders. I bend forward, hear myself cry out beneath the tape. He swings me around and shoves me onto the sofa.

Grinning, he points at me. “Good girl.”

He strides to the kitchen and pulls a beer from the fridge. Brooks is standing at the counter, looking at me, his expression agitated. I don’t see a weapon on him, but his shirt is untucked and he could have a pistol tucked in the waistband of his slacks. He pours two fingers of whiskey into a glass, slams it back, and pours again. Finally, he picks up the tumbler and starts toward me.

“Do you have any idea the problems you’ve caused?” he says.

I can’t speak, so I simply stare at him.

“You should have backed off when you had the chance.” Leaning closer, he rips the tape from my mouth. “Now we’ve reached the point of no return.”

“You son of a bitch,” I say.

“Yeah, I know.” Sighing, he plucks a tissue from a box on the end table and wipes my nose and mouth.

“My dispatcher knows where I am,” I tell him.

“No one knows where you are.”

“She knows I was at the country club. There are CCTV cams there. My vehicle is parked in the front lot.”

“Hate to break this to you, Chief, but the security cams aren’t working this evening.” He raises the tumbler and sips, looks at me over the rim. “And your vehicle is not parked in the front lot.” He looks at his watch and frowns. “In fact, it’s probably on its way to the chop shop as we speak.”

“Where’s Wingate?”

He doesn’t answer.

I glance at the bouncer. He’s sitting on a barstool, watching the exchange, nursing a beer, and looking amused.

“You’re crazy if you think you can get away with this,” I say.

Brooks takes another sip, gives me the whiskey grimace. “We’ll see.”

“It’s not too late to stop this,” I say. “Take these cuffs off me.”

He laughs, but the sound is fraught with tension. “Those cuffs are the least of your worries.” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

I’m keenly aware of the bouncer’s eyes on us. He might be enjoying the situation, but Brooks seems as if he’s under extreme stress. Because he knows this is a no-win situation? Or is there something else going on?

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask.

Giving me a contemptuous look, he tosses back the remainder of the whiskey, rises abruptly, and goes to the kitchen for another.