But it had happened. I wasn’t sure of anything else, but that one glimpse between us was deeper, truer, more real than anything I’d experienced.

The knowledge was a constant drumbeat in my bones, a never-ceasing rhythm demanding I found out more.

He knew me.

I knew him.

Of that I was absolute.

I need him alone. I need to know.

The moment I was reloaded into the van, the other women who’d been tossed to the ground were ferried on board, too—their blindfolds off, wrists freed.

I didn’t bother looking at or assessing my companions. Everything inside me turned inward—focusing on my own predicament, my lack of memory, and my unswerving knowledge that I had something to do with the ringleader of this mess. As selfish as it was, I had no time for others.

Not yet.

The man with green eyes didn’t join us. Instead, he’d growled orders at the three men hovering around us like dogs with a herd of sheep, and threw down the door with an almighty clang.

Darkness.

My heart wedged itself in my throat at once again losing my sight.

No light, or seats, or in-travel refreshments. The women were quiet, even though we had the power to talk once again. Clusters formed, shuffling closer in the blackness. One tried to take my hand, offering consolation in numbers.

I shook her off, preferring to stand alone, holding on to the side of the vehicle and paying attention to the sway of the cumbersome truck. I counted the corners we took. I drew a map inside my head. Not that it made any difference. I would never find my way home.

Where is home?

Exactly.

Even if I did get free, I had no idea where to run to, who to turn to for help. I was a damn mystery, and for now, I was in a place where none of that mattered.

Blinking, I forced myself back to the present and the garage full of motorbikes and muscle cars.

“Move, bitches.” A new man with a goatee appeared, chewing a piece of gum loudly.

The women shuffled forward into the light, cringing away from the offered hand of the man in the brown leather jacket.

Five.

Five women I counted as they all descended from the vehicle and into the new world of whatever existence we were in.

“You.” The man pointed in my direction. “You deaf?” He held out his hand, raising an eyebrow. “Come here.”

I narrowed my eyes, moving forward and placing my hand resolutely in his. “No, I’m not deaf.” Jumping down the small distance, I untangled my fingers from his the moment I touched the concrete.

The sound of my voice startled me. I have an accent. I hadn’t noticed before in the field.

The men around me spoke with an American looseness. Short, to the point, with a slight drawl. I spoke with a subtle difference… sounding vaguely posh with clipped consonants and drawn-out vowels.

“Get them inside. We’ve got a shitload of work still to do. This damn shipment wasn’t due until tomorrow, and I want them locked up tight before other shit hits the fucking fan.”

The voice came from another man in an identical brown leather jacket. He had black hair, cut short into a slight mohawk. The large emblem stitched onto the back of his jacket depicted an old-fashioned abacus with a skull burning with fire and a waterfall of coins spewing from its mouth. The motto PURE IN THOUGHTS AND VENGEANCE. CORRUPT IN ALL THINGS THAT MATTER. encircled the image.

A motorcycle club.

Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, slipping down my spine like a glacial melt. The fear I’d been missing sprang into being like wintery needles. A headache pressed on my temples as I tried to understand my sudden horror. Why did terror affect me now, but not when I’d woken to being kidnapped?

What could be worse than being stolen and trafficked?

They can.

I waited for a memory—for another snippet of truth. But nothing came.

I shivered, wrapping my arms around my waist. I scanned the garage, searching for him—the green-eyed earthquake who sent my blood rushing and heart to flush.

Something inside me recognized him. He recognized me. Either fiction or reality, I needed to see him again. I needed to question him while staring into his eyes, searching for the truth.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

Three men surrounded us, penning the other women closer together. “Move, bitches. Time for your welcome party.” With narrowed gazes, they herded us forward.

Questions ran through my head.

Who were they?

What were we doing here?

What did they plan to do?

Curiosity burned, but I didn’t voice my questions. I remained silent.

“Silence is ammunition, darlin’. Don’t give it up before you’re sure of the facts and know you can win.”

The fleeting memory gave no hint as to who told me that, who they were, and where I’d come from. I felt as if I were still blindfolded—lost to everything, even though my eyes were unhindered.

Leaving the parking garage, I followed the trail of girls through a thick door and down a narrow grey corridor. The men didn’t touch us; they didn’t draw weapons or raise their fists.

There was a calmness about them that transferred to us as their victims. The women trembled, an occasional hitch in their breath as they cried quietly, but no one screamed or did anything to shatter the brittle truce.

The corridor twisted, leading into a large room with a few scattered couches, a large red rug, huge pictures showing an eclectic mix of enlarged magazine covers, and shelving ringing the walls with every liquor and spirit bottle imaginable. The bare floor was worn, satiny wood, with the occasional pockmark from… bullets?

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