"That's what he said? Just that?" Huck asked.
"No," I said, shaking my head.
"You're going to do something for me," was what he'd said to me as he dropped his ass down on the edge of my desk, reaching down to grab a nail file, and inspecting it.
"I, ah, I think you have the wrong person," I'd told him, feeling my jaw starting to tremble. He'd blocked me in by positioning himself in my only way to exit save for jumping over my table.
"Shyanna Jordan. Think you're the only one of them in Miami," the man said, putting down the file, and picking up one of my fine-tipped polish brushes.
"How do you know who I am?" I asked, trying to speak past the lump in my throat.
"Turns out you and me, we know the same person."
Miami wasn't exactly a small town by any measure, but it wouldn't be unheard of for you and a stranger to have some people in common.
"Oh, really? Who?" I asked, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to convince myself there was nothing to be so anxious about. Sure, he was giving off creepy dude vibes, but no more so than the guy at my local convenience store whenever I ran in to buy milk or snacks. Sometimes people just weren't self-aware enough to realize they were being weird, or making other people uncomfortable.
But then he said the name.
And I knew there was nothing casual about the interaction.
"Belle," he said, gaze cutting to mine, like he wanted to see the shock and horror on my face when he dropped that name.
Because there was no way in any possible scenario that my little sister would find herself wrapped up with this kind of guy.
Belle was bubblegum sweet and painfully shy. I'd seen her with exactly two guys ever. Both of whom had been even more socially awkward and standoffish than she was.
Nothing like this guy.
This guy would have scared the crap out of her.
"Where is Belle?" I asked, mentally running through my phone, wondering when it was that she texted or video called me last. It had been at least a full twenty-four hours. Which wasn't completely unusual, but not all that common either. We were constantly getting in touch with each other, sharing videos or memes, pictures of something cool we saw at a store, or pictures of our pets.
Sure, life got busy. But we usually knew when life was going to get busy for the other person, so we weren't concerned if we didn't hear from the other.
Belle's life wasn't busy.
She, like me, was just doing the usual work and life thing, nothing extra. And she damn sure had no random guy friends who have "Bad News" practically tattooed across their foreheads.
"She's hanging out with my friends right now," the man declared.
When I say my stomach dropped, I mean I actually looked down at the floor, sure my insides were out.
Because there was no way Belle was with this man's "friends" willingly. And if she was with them unwillingly, what was happening to her?
"Why?" I choked out past the bile in my throat.
"Well, because I need you to do something for me. And you're not gonna like it. So, I figured you'd need some motivation?"
"What do you need? I'm just... I'm just a nail tech," I insisted. I had no special skills to speak of unless a really steady hand and some decent nail art counted. Which, call me crazy, but I was pretty sure that wasn't what this man had in mind.
"That's the beauty of it," he declared, putting down my polish, interlocking his hands on his lower stomach. Carefree. So damn sure of himself. "No one will suspect you."
"Suspect me," I repeated. "Of doing what?"
It was then that a wicked smirk pulled at his lips as he moved to stand and reached into the waistband of his pants, producing a gun.
He dramatically lowered it down on the surface of my desk, gaze on me as my gaze went to the weapon that looked a hell of a lot bigger in person than it did on TV.
"I... I don't even know how to use a gun," I told him, shaking my head as I backed up into the wall.
"Finger on the trigger, aim, shoot, not too complicated."
"I have no aim," I told him, then rattled off something about a basketball net before insisting, "I don't shoot things."
"People," he clarified, making my stomach twist.
"I definitely don't shoot people."
"Well, tough shit. Time to learn to do some new things. Because if you want to see that sweet sister of yours alive again, you're going to take this gun, find some of the Golden Glades Henchmen, and put a bullet in one of their heads."
"No." The word gasped out of me as the weight of what he was saying pressed down on me.
"Yes. And you got... I'll be generous here and give you five days to do it," the man said, moving away from my desk.
"No."
"Then me and my men and your sister... we'll have a good time," he said, the implication clear as a sick smile tugged at his lips. "And after we've gotten our fill of that, we'll send you her head. Five days," he repeated as he made his way out of the salon.
"Why didn't you go to the cops?" McCoy asked when I was finished telling them about the whole interaction, leaving out the part about my near mental breakdown after he left.
To that, I let out a snort. "I heard this statistic when I was scrolling through social media one day. Police only solve like forty percent of violent crimes each year. Forty percent. So sixty percent of the time, you might as well not even go to them. I mean... I thought about it. Of course I did. That was my first instinct too. I'm not a killer," I told them, voice pleading for them to believe me. "But there was just... there was something about this guy that made me think he wasn't going to let me get away with going to the police."
"He was probably watching you," McCoy said.
"Exactly. That was what I suspected. And when twenty-four hours passed—because I had no idea who or what the Golden Glades Henchmen even were, so I needed to look into it—I got a note under my apartment door."
"What was it?" Huck asked.
"A picture of a clock that said Tik-Tok Tik-Tok under it. That was it."
After I said that, I watched as the bikers all looked around at one another, each sharing a similarly grim look.
"Alright. Brainstorm. Which organizations are most likely to use kidnapping and extortion to make other people do their dirty work?" Huck asked.
"Cartels," Eddie chimed in first, shrugging when everyone's eyes fell on him. "Grew up in a bad area, man. Some places, the cartels run everything. They'll kill you for sitting at their table at a restaurant. Got children carrying out hits and shit. Wouldn't write them off, man."
"Alright. Donovan, you want to look into the cartel?" Huck asked, looking over at the well-dressed man.
"Yeah, I got it."
"Seeley," Huck went on. "You are the one with all the contacts. Hit them up, see if anyone has heard of this kind of shit before."
"On it," the young Seeley agreed.
"My sister," I choked out, looking at McCoy. "I can't... they will hurt her. And then they'll kill her."
"We're not going to let that happen," McCoy declared, getting a raised brow from Huck. "We're not going to let that happen," he repeated, voice firmer as he looked at his boss.