Chapter 19
Conin
Tooele appears in the horizon as a half-lit green sign and a cluster of small lights.
Ezra takes the off-ramp after gesturing at the fuel warning icon.
He’s resorted to silence—a mute press of his lips.
A heavy trepidation takes hold in my chest cavity, lingering as we pull up next to a fuel pump at a vacant gas station.
I think of Mom—of her phone call I ignored.
An immense feeling of loss washes over, making it hard to breathe.
I’m killing her.
“Conin?” Ezra’s voice calls from the abyss.
He reels me in from the deep, forcing me to look him in the eye. His irises are as full of concern as they are of fear. Something shatters inside me.
“I’m not sure how much I have left on my card, but it should be enough to keep us going for a little while,” he says.
It takes me a moment to register what he said.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
We both know I’m not.
“Yeah,” I lie. “And don’t worry about it. I’ll pay and then withdraw some money from an ATM to keep us going for a while. I’m using our joint credit card, so she’ll know where I am. If I use it this one time, we should be fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Positive,” I say and glare at the road behind us. “Keep an eye out, will you?”
He nods and I limp over to the convenience store.
The lady behind the counter shoots a questionable glance my way before returning to her phone.
I amble over to the only ATM, then withdraw a thousand dollars.
This should immediately alert Mom. I then scurry over to grab a map of Utah, some snacks to tide us over, and several water bottles.
It takes a second for the lady to realize I’m standing in front of her while I pile the groceries onto the counter.
She eyes me wearily and mumbles a pathetic excuse of a greeting before telling me how much I owe.
A pair of headlights flood the store, but they flee faster than they came. I will my beating heart to slow. The lady repeats the total cost.
“Oh, sorry. Can I add sixty bucks to pump four, please?”
She bags the water and snacks, then leaves me to my devices. When I return to the Chrysler, Ezra’s gaze is transfixed on the highway off-ramp. No sign of mercenaries, or jingoists, yet. A subtle wind blows through the strands of his hair, rustling the plastic of the grocery bags I carry.
“Nothing yet,” he whispers.
I hand him the snacks, then punch in the authorization code, and begin to fill the car.
With each guzzling noise, my chest constricts and grows tighter—a fear the worst has yet to come sprouts like poison entering my bloodstream.
The pump clicks and the echo of a gunshot crackles all around.
It’s in my hands and it’s not a gun. Of course, it’s not. We’re fine.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie again. “Let’s get moving.”
“Where to?” Ezra questions as I unfold the map.
“I don’t feel comfortable heading directly to Eureka,” I admit and thumb through the paper.
Charting out a course, there just so happens to be a more direct way to get to Atlas, but I know better than to potentially lead a mercenary to our only saving grace.
“UT-36 would lead us to the turn-off for Eureka, but I’d feel safer if we continued on I-80 to Wendover so we don’t hint to the Barclay Network of our true destination. That’s if we’re still being followed. It’s better to play it safe than sorry.”
“Sure,” Ezra says. He’s off. He’s been off since mercilessly kicking Callum to within an inch of his life. I stash away the urge to probe for later.
He pulls onto the highway and proceeds as if we never had this detour to begin with.
As time trickles forward, Ezra’s indiscreet glances in the rearview mirror become more obvious.
The emotion in his eyes is indiscernible, as if he’s caged it behind a practiced veneer.
His mouth is pursed just as tight as before, his knobbly shoulders rigid and locked into place.
Ezra’s hair is a disheveled chaos, though the bun from the other night withstands the test of our predicament.
Looking at him, at the boy that I love, I promise myself I will do everything in my power to keep him safe. Ezra and I might never be, but I cannot live in a world without him. The promise has been made, though my lips remain glued together.
“Co,” I hear his faint voice.
“What?”
“I might be paranoid,” he says, “this car’s been following us for a while now. Same distance, too, it seems.”
I twist to get a good look behind the passenger seat and stare at an endless sea of black.
But in the considerable expanse between is a pair of daunting lights—a vehicle that gains with each mile we drive.
It could be any random car on its way to a far destination, but I trust Ezra’s judgment. We’re certainly not alone.
“I’ll keep an eye on it,” I say. “You focus on driving.”
Ezra nods again, a frantic bob of his head.
“How’s your foot?” he asks.
I settle on the truth.
“It hurts like a bitch. I’m worried about it getting swollen . . .”
We won’t be able to go to a hospital, though neither of us says it.
“You’ve had worse from football, right?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, though I’ve had little time to assess how bad the injury is. I try desperately not to think about it. “I’ll work at getting a brace on it as soon as we can. Maybe Atlas or the Angelics will be able to treat it.”
“Maybe,” Ezra echoes and casts another peek through the mirror.
I take that as my cue to return to my post.
The pair of headlights is dangerously close for comfort.
It’s uncertain whether this is the same vehicle or just some random driver, but the tension solidifies in my body.
The throb in my ankle makes me clamp my teeth together and grind them mercilessly.
The car looms closer, its ray of light growing, blinding our view from the back, not that we could see much in the first place.
Lightning strikes from the pursuing vehicle. The bolt targets the asphalt ahead of us. Sparks rain down and scatter as we cruise by. I wince, craning my neck back at the mercenary from the motel.
Is Tommy . . . dead?
“Oh shit, oh shit,” Ezra panics under his breath.
The vehicle lurches.
“We’re going to make it,” I say and try to believe it.
Another burst of lightning vibrates the car, although we can’t see where it struck, and the vehicle lurches and groans with protest. Ezra veers the steering wheel to the right in one swift, panicked move.
He loses balance momentarily—an excruciatingly painful moment—before correcting himself and pressing hard on the accelerator.
The mercenary’s vehicle, pitch black in the dead of night, cruises forward and stays glued to our side.
A final bolt of electricity stuns the road ahead.
Ezra slams on the Chrysler’s brakes. A deep, audible pop rattles us in our seats—a blown tire followed by a shrill screeching.
When we’ve come to a complete stop, the mercenary’s vehicle pulls ahead and parks in front of our headlights.
We waste little time. The handgun I stole from Callum is in the glove compartment, so I snatch it and unclick the safety.
Ezra’s out the driver’s door, taking refuge behind the Chrysler’s trunk.
I have another plan in mind—a reckless one, but fuck it, I’m terrified.
The mercenary emerges from their vehicle, their skull mask a black hole.
I cock the chamber of the gun and fire in their direction.
Several wayward bullets are absorbed by the land, their destination unknown.
The flare of each shot flashes in my eyes, blinding the world around me.
In a last desperate attempt, the skull mask directs a lightning bolt my way.
I lunge, feeling the disturbing pain of my ankle and the scorching burn of flames erupting from behind me.
“Conin!” Ezra shrieks.
The hood of my car is on fire, a vivid contrast to the obsidian night. I crawl away as I feel flames eat at my clothing. I remove my hoodie and chuck it into the dark. The pounding of footsteps near, and my attention darts to Ezra’s frantic approach.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Where’s Skull Mask?”
Ezra’s blue and green eyes search the dark.
“I don’t—”
A crackle of blue webs disperses out of nowhere.
I release two more shots from where I saw the electricity form.
There’s a gasp, followed by a large thud, and then silence.
I don’t have time to react. I don’t have time to understand what I just did, what it means.
Ezra is pulling me up and telling me we need to leave .
. . people are coming . . . cars are far off but approaching.
I have to accept I won’t know if our pursuer is dead. Time is of the essence.
Fire consumes the Chrysler’s hood, quickly scorching the interior.
Ezra is leading me away, right to the mercenary’s vehicle.
I search for the body, see them lying there on the asphalt, but I’m then being shoved into the passenger’s side and Ezra’s fumbling for the keys still inserted in the ignition, bringing it to life.
Every noise descends into static. I can’t breathe. Endless darkness stretches ahead, perpetual and unrelenting. We move forward and cruise into the unknown.