Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3 by MariaLisa deMora

Author:MariaLisa deMora
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780998326733
Publisher: MLK Publishing
Published: 2017-01-11T05:00:00+00:00

Three hours

Something doesn’t add up, Duck thought, pacing off the dimensions of the room again. The cop car had been the first clue, and then he’d found the building next to it filled with a dozen other puzzles he had to piece together. False trails, red herrings to pick through to find the ones with real importance. The ones that didn’t scream ‘Look At Me.’ The office for the storage facility, which on the surface seemed unremarkable, but once he was inside, things felt…off. Nothing obvious. Just off in a way he couldn’t define, but which set his nerves on edge, so he had to pay attention.

The room looked like it had recently been occupied by a tidy squatter, which was an oxymoron in his book. Dirty towels were neatly folded in one corner of the room, laid on top of a cushion taken from the couch. Newspapers disassembled, the parts reassembled into piles of similar assortments. Section ones, section twos, and advertising sections, all piled into squares. The papers, torn but tidy, arranged randomly on the floor along one long wall. Ripped and sagging furniture squared with the straight lines of the walls, impotent lamps precisely lined up with the center of the tables, electric cords stretched out on the floor, ends plugged into nothing.

Pegboards on one wall held row upon row of keys, at first glance giving the impression of random arrangement. Upon closer inspection, if paying attention, it was possible to see the groupings matched the furniture in this room and the adjacent one.

Duck was paying close attention. Absolute attention.

Three keys together represented a couch, another similar set stood for the desk. Even the towels were accounted for, the jumbled piles of paper. Everything just right, even the things which should be wrong…too much so to be randomly arranged.

Empty lines of pegs were the walls, straight and in place. All but one. One of them was misplaced. So, he paced off the distance, counting, pacing, and repeating.

He stood, first looking at the peg wall, then swinging to look at the room. If the arrangement of the keys matched the contents of the room, with the groupings arranged to scale, and those empty lines of pegs were walls…then one of the walls he was looking at in the room didn’t exist, and there were about eight missing feet from that side of the room.

Making his way along the wall, he thumped with his fist, feeling stupid. This wasn’t a fucking TV show where he would miraculously find a hidden door leading to the evil mastermind’s torture chamber. It was a fucking storage unit rental place in fucking Las Cruces, and he was an unemployed enforcer for a fucking motorcycle club, not a goddamned detective.

He paused his advance, thumping hard against the same place on the wall, then moved his hand down a foot and thumped again. It sounded different, hollow. Running his fingers along the surface, he found a ripple, an unevenness in the drywall. Bending over, he

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