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Shea spent the next hour and a half alone in an interrogation room with only a table and four wooden chairs for company. She’d lost all sensation in her right pinkie and ring finger because of the handcuffs. But her mind wasn’t focused on the cuffs.
Since she’d woken up that morning, one person had been killed, another shot, and a third kidn*pped. She herself had been shot at by an outlaw biker and had been in an armed standoff with a Mexican d**g trafficker. She still had no idea where the stolen motorcycles were. And here she sat, stewing in a police station. Jessica was, no doubt, plotting ways to kill her for standing her up yet again. She was in the eye of a Category 5 s**t storm.
Willie and Sheriff Buzz Keeler, whom she’d called Buzzkill since childhood, walked into the room. B
