With the kickstand in place, he slung his leg over his bike and dismounted. He rubbed a palm against his midsection. His gut ached. With each step toward the front door, the misery eating away at his insides became more urgent. The pain. This place. It drew him like a tether to a ball. Markus lifted the rusted metal door hammer and rapped twice. The porch groaned under the weight of his shifting feet. He glanced back down the isolated, dirt driveway. It was all familiar somehow. But when? And why the hell had he been here before? The massive door with its peeling paint opened, creaking loudly. Candlelight glowed from within. A large, dark-skinned man dressed in only a pair of black leathers filled the door frame. “Welcome, warrior,” he beckoned in a thick Spanish accent. “Our mistress has been waiting for your return and report.” He backed away from the opening and, with a swing of his head, indicated Marcus should enter.
