“Lady,” he wheezed through split lips. “You need to get out of here. They’ll be back.” Martha wiped blood from a cut above his eyebrow with surprising gentleness. What’s your name? Jake. Jake Morrison. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it, clutching his ribs. Those bastards took our bikes, our patches. They’re not done with us.
Who were they? Jake’s laugh turned into a cough that brought up specks of blood. Wolves MC been trying to muscle in on our territory for months finally decided to make their point. Martha nodded, filing away the information with the same methodical precision she’d once used to catalog enemy assets in Beirut. Can you walk? Don’t think so. My legs.
Jake looked down at his left knee, which was bent at an angle that defied anatomy. I’m going to move you and your friends into my house. Then I’m going to make some calls. No cops, Jake said quickly. This is club business, Martha’s smile held no warmth. I wasn’t planning to call the police. It took her 40 minutes to get all three men inside using an old wheelbarrow from the barn and a stubborn determination that surprised even her.
Jake remained conscious throughout, gritting his teeth as she maneuvered him onto her living room couch. The other two, younger men she learned were called Diesel and Crow, she arranged on air mattresses dragged down from the attic. While they rested, Martha moved through her house with purpose.
From a false bottom in her bedroom dresser, she retrieved a satellite phone that hadn’t been used in 8 years. From behind a loose board in the basement, she pulled out a waterproof case containing three passports, each with her photograph, but different names. And from a hidden compartment in her kitchen pantry, she took out something she’d hoped never to touch again.
