Peeking over the unconscious Billy’s shoulder, she stared at the biker. Frosty blue eyes filled with joy, he was young, maybe Billy’s age. A do-rag covered his hair; a teardrop was tattooed beneath his left eye.

“Motor still sounds good.” His deep baritone voice was a complete shock. “The body, though.” A crooked grimace pulled at his lips. “Maybe Natches’s boys can fix it.” He grinned. “Come see me if they can’t, we’ll work something out.” A wicked wink and he brought his boot-shod feet up to her seat and launched himself smoothly from the car.

Helping hands pulled Billy from her, rushing him to a van as Doogan strode across the small clearing toward her.

He was in Brom clothes, dammit.

He moved to the car, leaned against the frame of the shattered windshield, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Dawg is probably going to have those pups now,” he stated calmly.

She craned her neck to stare behind her at the men being dragged from the other car and thrown over the shoulders of two of the larger members of Jack Clay’s group and carted off.

Zoey’s teeth clenched. “The world just ain’t right anymore.”

“Hmm.” He nodded. “I guess we better get the blood cleaned off you before Dawg . . .”

Blood?

There was blood?

It was everywhere. So much blood.

Zoey screamed.

The blood was on her hands, on the knife. . . .

Harley.

She couldn’t escape the sight of the scarlet fluid. It soaked his shirt, her hands.

She screamed his name. The knife fell from her hands and there, coating her palms, was the crimson proof of her crime. Or was it?

She stared at her hands, only vaguely aware of Doogan rushing her from the car and into the cool silence of the woods surrounding them. Jack Clay moved ahead of them, his expression hard-core pissed off from what she saw of it. When she saw it.

The images shooting through her head like crazy fireflies were far more terrifying than the nightmare. They flashed between nightmare and memory, strangling her with fear and pain, paranoia and fury.

Tied to the bed, helpless, gagged. The syringe pushing into her arm, the drug the color of sunlight as it was pushed from the plunger into her vein. And once it hit her system, it boiled in her blood, like lava inching through her, ripping through her mind with agony. She tried to scream, but the sound was blocked, smothered by the gag over her mouth. Instinct had her fighting, her fingers curling into claws, fighting to reach the smirking, malicious face of the bastard staring down at her.

She stared into the eyes of the man drugging her. Ice blue, a jagged scar running down his face. She knew him. He’d been there at the party the night she had danced with Doogan. There hadn’t been a scar, but she remembered his face and his eyes, and the malevolence that filled them.

And when his partner stepped to the bed and straddled her, she stared into his green eyes, into a face from the past. He’d smiled. He’d enjoyed her pain, enjoyed making certain it hurt as much as possible.

He wasn’t Johnny Grace, the cousin Natches had been forced to kill sixteen years before. He was Johnny’s clone. Or his son. In his twenties, his gaze malicious, his voice filled with hatred.

Her stomach cramped as the memories poured over her. Pain lanced her head, tearing through her temples with brutal punishment, just as he’d warned her. She couldn’t remember anything but what they told her, she’d been instructed. She would only know what they told her, nothing more. And as the drug began speeding through her system, she hadn’t been able to fight it. She’d tried. She’d fought . . . and then the real pain had begun.

Stumbling, collapsing against Doogan now, Zoey fought to breathe, to let the memories just pour in. As though they belonged to someone else, not her, she let them spill over her. She would be angry later. She would cry later when she could deal with it. For now, she just wanted the truth.

She hadn’t killed Harley, but she was terribly afraid they might have. They planned to. They knew where he was and they were going after him next. After they dumped Zoey on her sister’s patio for Sam Bryce to find.

So she could confess to killing Harley, and Sam would have to arrest her. When she did, the Mackays and all their friends would lose favor with Homeland Security and lose the protection they’d gained over the years. As well as the power base they’d built not just in Kentucky but within the law enforcement agencies as well. And once that was done, not just the Mackays would be taken care of, but Doogan as well. She hadn’t known then who Doogan was or why it would affect him.

“Killing you won’t hurt Doogan near as bad as destroying you. You, your family, his power base. Too bad he let the wrong person see how much he cared, isn’t it? Now, Doogan and the Mackays all lose when they lose you. . . .” The words filtered through the agony, through the images of blood and death flashing through her mind.

“Too bad . . .” another voice echoed through her head. “Too bad you had to choose the wrong man. . . . Too bad . . .”

Jarring, horrifying, the pain dug into her head, breaking the words off, shattering the memories as she felt herself collapsing into Doogan’s hold, her strength stolen by the slicing pain saturating her head.

“They were so confident,” she whispered, as she found herself cradled in Doogan’s arms, his back propped against a tree as Jack Clay crouched beside them. “One, he had green eyes, like Natches. He’s Johnny Grace’s son. He said Natches would pop my head like a little grape, just like his father, Johnny. I couldn’t go to my family; I had to confess to Sam, because he said Natches would kill me. His partner called him Luther. But I’ve seen him before. His eye color was different.” They were aqua before. The aqua eyes had thrown her off. She’d seen his face, seen him somewhere. “The other, he worked at Natches’s garage for a while. Scar, cold blue eyes. Luther called him Rigsby.”

“Tom Rigsby. He’s actually former DHS. He worked in interrogation, which explains how he knew about that drug. Luther Jennings would be Johnny’s boy, I guess,” Clay said softly. “Tom was driving the car that chased you and Billy. I recognized him. He and Luther hooked up a few years ago when Tom was kicked out of DHS for failing to pass a polygraph. And you’re right, Luther’s eyes were aqua when he was here in Somerset a few years ago.”

“He stayed at the inn.” Zoey held her head; the pain was bad, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. “He was always trying to flirt with me. Creeped me out.”

It was the way he looked at her. His gaze hadn’t been hateful or mean, but something had lurked behind his smile and in the eyes that seemed far too calculating.

“Did you catch Rigsby?” Doogan asked.

Zoey stared at Clay, praying, oh God she prayed they’d caught both men.

Instead, Clay shook his head slowly. “Rigsby was killed by one of my boys. The shooter with him was a two-bit hired bully out of Louisville.” Concern filled his eyes. “Luther won’t be happy to learn his buddies are dead. And if Luther’s anything like Johnny, then he’s as mean and cunning as a damned rattler.”

“We have to tell Dawg,” Zoey groaned, laying her head on Doogan’s chest as she felt him tense. “Oh God, that’s going to be so bad.”

“So bad doesn’t describe it.” Moving to his feet, Doogan helped her to rise, keeping his arm around her as they stared around the sheltering forest before turning his gaze back to Clay. “I need wheels. We have to get back to the apartment and I have to make some calls first.”

“Take my bike.” Clay nodded to the Harley parked on the dirt lane cutting through the valley. “I have a call out to Sam and she’ll take care of everything here. Let me know when the Mackays are coming to call if you want me there.” He didn’t sound so eager to be there, though. Not that Zoey could blame him. Hell, she didn’t think she wanted to be there. Doogan kept his arm around her, holding her close to his side. And it was a damned good thing, because Zoey didn’t think her knees were strong enough to hold her up yet. She could feel herself shaking from the inside out and she hated it. She hated it to the point that her teeth were clenched, her muscles tight with the effort to hold back the shudders.