It raced far faster than it should, but that wasn’t news to her. She felt each throb all the way to the marrow of her bones. Fear did that to a person. Drawing a deep breath, she peeked into the warehouse. Big, dark shapes filled the space and a weak light glowed from the back corner. Those shapes could be anything. Or hide anyone. An icy sliver of dread slipped down her spine, and she battled to remain still. Breathing slowly took extreme concentration, and she hardly had time for that. She needed to get in and out as quickly as possible. If she needed to escape, she prayed she was fast enough on foot. Her car—or the club’s car, rather—was parked five blocks away where nobody would ever see and connect this event with the Hell’s Sons. She longed for the safety of the clubhouse and the familiar chores waiting for her. Planning meals for all the hungry bikers and their families. Keeping things tidy. Caring for cuts and scrapes that the guys inevitably came back with after an illegal alcohol run or a scuffle with a drug dealer as they tried to run the bad shit out of Heller’s Gap, Alabama.
