War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Coven (War-N-Wit, Inc. - Book 3) by Gail Roughton

Except for the plan part. Seeing as how we didn’t really have one.
    “I’m calling in all the Vegas clubs down here just as soon as we hang up. But we don’t want to roar in a big group. Gonna send ‘em in couple at a time, I’m thinking. And I’m making a side trip to an industrial supply house.”
    “Good man. What’s your side trip?”
    “ Didn’t you read my card?”
    No, actually, except for the first name and the number, none of us had. We did now. Jack Hudlin, Ph.D. Chemical Engineer. Hudlin Technology, Inc.
    “Some damn,” said Spike.
    “You betcha’ ass, son. Gonna be some smoke bombing in the old warehouse tonight. Among other things.”
     
    * * *
     
    We waited. Shadows formed and re-shifted.
    “Ari , you know I need you to go in, right? Ghostman’s pretty good but I need you to see the layout. From Chad’s eyes.”
    “I know.”
    I didn’t want to. Because I’d already dipped a toe in the water. Water dark and cold as the River Styx. Water of memory. Of hate and hurt. And betrayal. His of them. Them of him.
    I took a deep breath, rubbed the big diamond of my engagement ring, that magic talisman that deepened our connection, and dived in.
     
    * * *
     
    His jaws hurt. Both sides. Which meant mine did. And it was hard to focus through eyes swollen almost shut. Hard to breathe through the bloody nose, too. They’d worked him over pretty good. Shoulders hurt, but that was mostly from bouncing around on the floor of the crash van they’d tossed him into when they’d jumped him in the alley back of Cyanide.
    He was on the floor, his back against a wall. Not tied to anything, we weren’t that lucky. Chained. And on second thought, maybe that was lucky. The wall he was bolted to wasn’t all that sturdy anymore. Enough pressure and the bolts should pop right out. I counted fifteen Dark Rulers, including the Prez. And a bushy wild man from Borneo. The original Spike. Until our Spike had claimed his handle, anyway. I wondered if they still called him Spike. Then he moved and I saw it. The hook that replaced the hand. So. They’d had to amputate. I’d bet Pine Whisper Plantation they called him “Hook” now. And there was the woman from the bar. I was right. One and the same as the woman from the flashback. Snowman’s reward for a job well done.
    She came over and squatted in front of him in a modified version of that favorite Bike Week pastime, death by boobs.
    “Used to love these, Snowman, remember?” She ground against him. “Betcha never found anything like ‘em since!” She ground forward hard again, pushing his head back against the wall before she relented and backed off.
    He gasped for breath by the time his nose and mouth was clear.
    “No, Iris, I never found anything like ‘em since. Silicone that hard’s not all that common, thank God.”
    I winced. The man never would learn when to shut up. The bikers laughed and cat-called.
    “Hell, Snowman, you always did call ‘em like you saw ‘em! Damn sho’ right about that, now!”
    The woman—Iris?—slapped him hard and blood trickled from the corner of his lip.
    “ Shut your fuckin’ mouth! Don’t you talk to me that way! ”
    “Back off, bitch! Can’t take the heat, don’t play with the fire. You knew he was a smokin’ gun. Always was.”
    “You defending that—that Judas! ”
    “Oh, hell no, bitch! Just want him alive and conscious for tonight’s finale after the auction. The motorcycle pull.” The Prez grinned. If I’d actually been standing there, I’d have fainted. The image in his head was that clear. The image of Chad, each limb chained to four revving motorcycles. Motorcycles tearing off in opposite directions.
    Baby girl! Pull it together! Chad’s voice echoed through my brain.“ Ain’t gonna happen. You’re here now. The Coven’s here. And everything’s gonna be just fine.
    Glad you think so. Have you seen the girls?
    No, but they’re in the back, behind this wall. Drugged to the max. They