Chapter Eleven
~ Bodean ~
The cab of Jo’s truck always smelled like machine oil, rawhide, and the faint, not-unpleasant funk of old sweat that clung to the bench seat no matter how many times he Windexed the vinyl.
I was pressed up against the passenger door, window half down, letting the frigid valley air whip through the space between us as we shot past the last of the town limits and onto the winding county road that would take us to the McKenzie farm.
Neither of us spoke for the first few miles.
The engine drowned out the need for small talk, and besides, Jo’s hands on the wheel told me everything I needed to know about his mood—loose at first, almost lazy, then tightening on the turns, the tendons in his knuckles standing out with every downshift.
He’d dressed up for the occasion, meaning he’d put on a clean black tee and jeans that didn’t have fresh grease on them, but he still wore his work boots and a pair of mirrored aviators that made him look more like a state trooper than the man I’d sucked off in the kitchen that morning.
I tried not to stare at his hands, but it was useless. The left one had a fresh cut across the knuckle, maybe from a wrench, maybe from something meaner. I wanted to kiss it, or at least ask, but every time I opened my mouth, he’d hit the gas and let the V8 do the talking for both of us.
The drive was supposed to be easy. Thirty minutes, tops.
I could already taste the awkward tension of the dinner waiting at the end—Knox glowering across the table, Grandma Minnie pretending everything was fine, Harlow somewhere in the background trying not to look like he was listening to every word.
If I closed my eyes, I could picture the whole disaster unfolding, right down to the chipped Corelle plates and the inevitable “so, what are your intentions with our Bodean?” from my grandmother.
But when I opened them, all I saw was the ghosting shape of Jo’s reflection in the windshield, and the empty, sunlit road ahead.
That lasted maybe five more miles.
The first bike showed up in the side mirror—a black-on-black Harley, low to the ground, engine note so deep it was more felt than heard. Then another. Then three more, fanning out in a loose arrowhead behind us, headlights glaring in the early dusk.
“Company,” I said, my voice thinner than I’d meant.
Jo didn’t react, not even a glance. “You recognize them?”
I craned around, heart already thumping like it wanted out. The leader was easy: matte-black helmet with a chrome skull faceplate, battered leather vest over a thermal, hands bare even though the air was cold enough to bite.
Harley Westbrook, a man so allergic to subtlety he’d once lit a cop car on fire for blocking a handicapped parking space.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s him.”
Jo nodded, then checked the rearview, just a flick of his eyes. “Hold on.”
He didn’t swerve, not yet, just eased the truck a little to the right, tires flirting with the rumble strip.
The bikes mirrored us, keeping a perfect distance, the leader pulling close enough that I could see the patch on his shoulder: DEADWOOD CHAPTER, stenciled in white over crossed engine pistons.
Jo thumbed a switch on the dash, and I realized he’d rigged the truck with something extra—a toggle labeled “FLOOD.” He waited, hands steady on the wheel.
“Call your brothers,” he said, voice flat as a concrete slab. “Tell them to be ready.”
I fumbled for my phone, nearly dropping it as my hand shook. The number was already pinned at the top of my contacts—Knox, because even when I’d left home, I’d never actually cut the cord. The phone rang once before he picked up, voice gruff and annoyed.
“Bo. You close?”
“Not exactly,” I said, watching as the five bikes spread into a fan, boxing us in from both sides. “We got a situation.”
Jo yanked the wheel hard left, skirting the double yellow. The truck lurched, and my shoulder hit the window, the seatbelt cutting into my collarbone.
“We’re being followed,” I spat, “by Harley and his entire fucking circus. They’re trying to box us in.”
There was a pause on the line, then the sound of Knox yelling for Ransom and Quiad. “Where are you?”
“Headed toward the river turnoff. They’re right on us—” I broke off as one of the bikes surged forward, riding the shoulder. Jo floored it, and the engine howled.
“We’ll be there,” Knox said, voice gone hard. “Stay alive.”
He hung up.
Jo glanced over, and for a second I thought I saw a flicker of worry in his eyes, but it was gone before I could read it. “How many?”
“Five,” I said, “but only three look like they know how to ride.”
He grunted. “That’s enough.”
The first time Harley tried to edge us off the road, he came in on the left, inches from the truck, the skull helmet grinning right at me through the window.
Jo drifted into his lane, forcing the bike into the soft dirt at the edge, but Harley didn’t even flinch. He matched us move for move, like he was daring us to blink first.
I could see his eyes, pale and bright, even through the tint of the visor. He raised one finger—middle, obviously—and gestured up, like “faster, bitch,” as if he could muscle us into a crash by willpower alone.
Jo smiled, real slow. Then he hit the “FLOOD” toggle.
Four giant off-road lights mounted on the roof snapped on at once, blasting the bikers with a wall of white. I heard the engines stutter behind us, the whine of a rev limiter as at least one of the bikes got spooked and dropped back.
But Harley stayed right there, inches from the mirror, one hand steady on the bar, the other now flipping a small black object in his palm.
“What the fuck is that?” I said.
Jo didn’t answer. Instead, he floored the gas and aimed for the next curve, which happened to be a sharp S-turn with nothing but a strip of gravel between the road and a stand of pines.
The truck hit the curve at twice the posted speed, and the G-force slammed me against the door so hard my teeth rattled.
Behind us, I heard the distinct, satisfying scrape of metal on asphalt as one of the bikes lost control and slid out, sparks flaring in the dusk. The rider tumbled into the ditch, but the rest kept coming, even more pissed than before.
I tried to breathe, but the air was all engine noise and panic.
“They’re not backing off,” I managed.
“They won’t,” Jo said, eyes locked on the road. “They want you to see it coming.”
The next mile was a blur—bikes darting in and out, Jo threading the truck through the curves like he’d memorized every inch of the county. He didn’t say a word, just kept one hand tight at ten o’clock, the other hovering near the gearshift.
Harley made another move, this time coming up on the right.
I saw him reach for the thing on his belt, and suddenly it was in his hand—a length of thick, rusty chain.
He swung it in a lazy circle, then let it snap against the side of the truck, the bang so loud it felt like the metal had gone straight through my bones.
Jo didn’t flinch, just leaned on the horn, the sound so deep it sent a tremor through the dash. He pulled the wheel hard right, and for a second we were airborne, all four tires skimming the ground as we hit a blind rise and cleared the shoulder.
The truck landed, and I lost my stomach somewhere in the footwell.
“Shit, shit, shit—” I clung to the dash, sweat running down my back.
Then Jo cut left, aimed straight for a side road barely wider than the truck itself. He killed the lights, banking us into darkness, the only illumination coming from the moon and the headlights of the bikes behind us.
Two of the bikers tried to follow, but the third clipped the turn too fast and ate it hard, bike and rider spinning off into the brush with a shriek.
“Three left,” I gasped.
Jo didn’t answer. He pushed the truck harder, the speedometer burying itself past seventy as we tore down the dirt track, rocks pinging off the undercarriage.
I risked a glance behind us and saw that the bikes had split up—Harley in the lead, the other two flanking him, their engines screaming as they gained ground.
I could see Harley’s face now, the white skull mask glowing in the moonlight. He looked at me, really looked, like he was reading the fear right off my skin.
He smiled, then gunned the throttle, closing the gap until he was almost even with the truck.
“Jo,” I said, but the warning was useless.
Harley lifted the chain again, this time aiming for the windshield. The first hit spiderwebbed the glass, the second opened a star-shaped hole right at Jo’s eye line.
Jo jerked the wheel, throwing Harley off balance, but the bastard hung on, one hand locked on the bar, the other swinging the chain in wild arcs.
One of the other bikes dropped back, but the last—some idiot with a mohawk and arms sleeved in bad ink—kept pace, engine snarling as he tried to box us in from the right.
Jo bared his teeth, then did the one thing I never expected: he eased off the gas, just enough to let the bikes close in.
“What are you—” I started, but Jo cut me off.
“Trust me.”
He hit the brakes, just for a second, and the truck slid into a controlled skid. Harley shot ahead, suddenly in front of us, and Jo floored it again, using the grill of the F-250 like a battering ram.
We hit the rear wheel of Harley’s bike dead center. The impact was a thunderclap, metal and plastic exploding, the skull helmet snapping backward as Harley tried to regain control.
But Jo didn’t let up.
He drove through the bike, sending it cartwheeling into the ditch, and then punched the gas, pulling us ahead of the wreckage. For a heartbeat, the world was silent. Then the sound of sirens, distant but coming closer, echoed down the road.
Jo let the truck coast, engine ticking as it cooled. He kept both hands on the wheel, breathing hard.
I stared at him, my whole body shaking.
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft for the first time all night.
I tried to answer, but my mouth was full of copper and my throat wouldn’t work.