The world returned to me in a slow, painful haze of grey light and the sharp, metallic taste of blood in my mouth. The airbag had deflated, hanging like a limp, gray shroud over the shattered steering wheel. My head was spinning, a dull, throbbing pain radiating from my temple where I had hit the side window, and my ribs felt as though they had been squeezed in a vise. I blinked through the dust and smoke, my eyes desperately searching the dark interior of the cab.
"Logan," I rasped, my voice barely a whisper.
Beside me, Logan was slumped against the passenger door, his face pale and covered in a fine layer of white powder from the airbag. His left shoulder was completely soaked in dark, thick blood, but his eyes were open, focused, and burning with a quiet, dangerous intensity. He was holding his right hand against his side, his fingers working silently to cut through the heavy zip-ties that had been slapped around his wrists by the men who had dragged us from the wreckage.
We weren't in the truck anymore. We were sitting on the cold, polished hardwood floor of a massive, vaulted living room inside the Blackwood Ridge lodge. The space was aggressively luxurious, filled with expensive leather furniture, taxidermy heads of elk and bear on the stone walls, and a roaring fireplace that did nothing to warm the freezing dread in my chest.
Standing in front of us, looking down with a smug, triumphant grin, was Silas Thorne. He was a tall, slender man in his late fifties, dressed in an expensive cashmere sweater and tailored slacks, his gray hair perfectly coiffed. He looked more like a country club president than a ruthless criminal, but the cold, dead look in his eyes told a very different story.
Behind him stood Grizz and three other bikers, their leather jackets smelling of road dust and cheap beer. Grizz was holding the brown paper bag, his thick fingers casually ripping the top open to reveal the rusted metal tackle box inside.
"Well, Arthur," Thorne said, his voice smooth and dripping with a sickening, polite condescension. "You certainly know how to make an entrance. I must admit, I didn't think you had the stomach for a high-speed chase. But I suppose desperation makes cowards brave."
"Where are they?" I growled, trying to stand, but one of the guards behind me kicked my knee, forcing me back down onto the hard floor. I gasped in pain, my hands clenching into fists.
Thorne smiled, a slow, cruel gesture. He gestured with his hand, and two of his men stepped into the hallway, dragging Sarah and Chloe out of a side room.
"Grandpa!" Chloe cried, her small voice breaking as she tried to run toward me. Her face was red and tear-stained, her favorite yellow dress dusty and torn.
Sarah held her tight, her eyes wide with terror but her jaw set in a stubborn line of defiance that reminded me so much of Danny. "Arthur! Don't give him anything! He's going to kill us anyway!"
"Shut up," Grizz rumbled, stepping forward and shaking the brown paper bag in front of my face. "We got the cash, boss. Forty-five grand, just like the old man promised."
Thorne didn't even look at the bag. He kept his eyes locked on me, his expression turning cold and businesslike. "As I told you on the phone, Arthur, the cash is irrelevant now. The price has gone up. You brought a federal agent into my business. That complicates things."