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forward. “Look, Bob…I think we’ve had a misunderstanding.”
    “You paid your entrance fee, Angel. It’s my job to make sure you have a good time, unless you got something extra in that fancy purse to buy yourself some time alone.”
    I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You’re the owner?”
    He lifts a thin, black eyebrow and smiles.
    Is that a yes or a no? I can’t tell and at this moment, I don’t care.
    Pulse racing, mouth dry, legs trembling, I glance quickly at the sea of tables, chairs, metalheads, and Goths in front of me. A few of them are looking at us. Surely, they aren’t just going to sit around and watch me get robbed or assaulted. Or maybe that’s what they do for entertainment in Hellhole.
    “I made a mistake coming here.” I force my voice to stay calm and even despite the violent trembles wracking my body. “You keep the entrance fee and we’ll pretend I had a good time.” Then I whirl around and hit the back door running.
    Heart pounding, I take the stairs two at a time, no easy feat in heels. A few moments later, I burst into the alley and race toward the street. But before I make it to safety, the bouncer rounds the corner, blocking my way. Rough hands grab me from behind and pull me, kicking and screaming, behind a Dumpster.
    “Her purse is behind you.” The bouncer jerks his chin toward the exit door as Bob pins me against the wall. He covers my mouth with one hand and brackets my wrists over my head with the other, holding them against the rough brick surface.
    Maybe his real name is Beelzebub and they call him Bob for short.
    “We could have had such a good time.” Bob strokes my cheek. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”
    The bouncer joins us and frowns. “I thought you just wanted her purse.”
    Unable to imagine a “good time” that involves Bob in any way, shape, or form, I renew my writhing, kicking, and screaming efforts. My foot makes contact and Bob groans. He releases my hands, but before I can run, he grabs my hair. Twisting to get away, I lose my footing at the same time Bob releases his grip. Before I can catch myself, I go flying into the Dumpster.
    Something cracks.
    My head.
    Someone screams.
    Me.
    But the echo of my scream isn’t the only sound I hear as I slide to the ground.
    Tires screech. Doors slam. Feet thud on concrete.
    Voices. Shouts. Roars.
    “There in the alley. That’s her. The girl who was in my cab. Damn. I think we’re too late.”
    Shadows race toward me. Dazed, confused, flitting in and out of consciousness, I watch them as if I’m far away.
    “Fuzzy, better turn away. There’s gonna be some illegal activity going on in about ten seconds.” The deep voice is familiar. I last heard that voice at Redemption and it was attached to someone wearing a yellow happy face vest. My gaze focuses on a huge barrel chest. Rampage! What’s Rampage doing here?
    “Fuck that,” someone answers. “Nothing illegal about taking down two criminals who I’m pretty sure are going to resist arrest. I won’t even mind doing the paperwork at the station tonight.”
    A cop. Rampage called him Fuzzy. Oh my God. The cab driver’s son. Tears prickle my eyes and I wish I had a run-to-the-rescue kind of dad too.
    The shadows converge, and as they come into the dim light, I recognize them from Redemption: Rampage, Blade Saw, Homicide Hank, and Obsidian. When I was with Jake, we partied with the Redemption crew every weekend. Best bunch of guys I ever knew—big hearts, big muscles, and a bond so tight they were almost like brothers.
    And right now the brothers are on a tear with fury in their eyes.
    Rampage grabs the bouncer and tosses him through the air like a discarded tissue. I catch a glimpse of red hair and a thin, wiry body as Homicide Hank screams and drives his fist into Bob’s gut. But Bob is fast. He spins around and an inattentive Blade Saw gets a punch to the jaw. Blade Saw’s face curdles with rage and I look away. A former semi-pro