Shanice Wilson, born and raised in Harlem, moves to Atlanta for her new job. The company sets her up in a lovely cul-de-sac in an almost deserted part of the suburbs.
Nate Dylan is the president of the Dead-Eye Angels MC. He rides with his buddies...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Song: Limp Bizkit - Behind Blue Eyes
I scratch my head, wracking my brain for the kid's name, and then it hits me. Bryan's latest recruit. Ethan. He was part of the group who bailed when Bryan got the boot but came crawling back once they realized Bryan was more messed up than a bag of screws.
"Ethan," I growl, not bothering with niceties. "What do you want?"
His voice is shaky, like a chihuahua trying to bark with a sore throat. "I-I-I"
Tired of his stuttering I sneer at him. "Spit it out"
"I know where Bryan is," he says without preamble.
My eyes practically leap out of their sockets as my chest tightens for air. This son of a bitch knew where Bryan was the entire time?!
"I've been helping him. Bringing him food, and..." Ethan continues.
"You've been feeding that bastard? What the hell?" His nerves make him mumble, so I give him a half-yell prompt. "Speak louder."
"He's at the abandoned school down Morrison Road."
I can't help but yell, "That's where that prick's been hiding? In a damn school?" Ethan's about to open his mouth, but my stare clamps him shut. "Why keep this nugget of wisdom to yourself until now?" I ask the fucking-for-sure former member.
A sheen of sweat covers his forehead as he stammers something incoherent. Tired of his selective stutter, I grab him by the shirt and lift him off the ground. "Straight answers. Time's ticking," I grit out.
More stammering. I toss Ethan to the other side of the room like a sack of potatoes, tired of his stuttering. I signal Gunnar, a senior member. "Watch him. Don't let him go anywhere until I return." I menacingly point to Ethan, who has now sat on the floor, moving his body back and forth, murmuring something indescribable.
I shake my head, disgusted by the sight. How did this jello-spine weakling end up in the Dead-Eye Angels? One loud word, and he's ready to soil his pants. But there's no time to mull over the mess in my gang. I need to find Bryan.
***
Revving the engine of my Dodge Ram, it growls to life, blending with the biting wind howling around it. The school emerges in the distance, like the many other deserted buildings in the area. Since the scandal that rocked the school and the upper elite of Atlanta, the city's one-percenters decided to close it down. Now, it stands alone, a silent soldier overwatching the rest of the neighborhood that has been left abandoned.
Stepping through the creaking door, a wave of stench hits me, like death's stale breath clinging to the air. Shanice's battered image flashes in my mind.
"No, Bryan couldn't have killed her," I try to convince myself. Yet, with every step into the school, the rancid scent of death intensifies. My mind races, desperately trying to convince itself otherwise. Shanice can't be gone.
