Chapter 5 - Convict
"Like father, like daughter," I murmur, watching her face closely. "Both helping the people no one else will."
Her eyes, warm brown and remarkably steady despite everything, hold mine.
"I never thought of it that way," she admits.
The pain in my side has settled into a constant throb, more manageable now that I'm sitting still. The clean bandage and fresh shirt help, making me feel almost human again. But the blood loss has left me light-headed, detached from reality in a way that makes honesty easier than it should be.
"Tell me about him," I say. "Your father."
Rebecca hesitates, settling herself against a neighboring tree. For a moment, I think she'll refuse, retreat back behind professional walls. But then she sighs, twisting a loose curl around her finger.
"His name was David," she begins softly. "He was... gentle. That's the word I always think of first. He could fix anything. Cars, appliances, toys. He'd spend hours in the garage tinkering with broken things until they worked again."
I nod, encouraging her.
"When my mom got sick—breast cancer—the bills piled up fast. Insurance covered some, but not enough.
He took extra shifts at the factory, worked weekends, but it wasn't enough.
" She stares at her hands. "He got desperate.
Robbed a convenience store. Got caught immediately.
He wasn't cut out for crime. Too honest for his own good. "
"How long was his sentence?"
"Five years. He served three before he died." Her voice tightens. "Pneumonia. Treatable, if anyone had bothered to notice how sick he was. By the time they got him to a hospital, his lungs were too damaged."
"I'm sorry."
"My mother recovered," Rebecca continues. "Beat the cancer. She's healthy now, lives about an hour from here. Calls me every day, worried sick about me working in a prison." A small, sad laugh escapes her. "She's going to lose her mind when she hears about this."
"You're close with her?"
"Very. She's all I have." Rebecca looks up at me. "What about you? You mentioned Dice is your only family?"
I nod, shifting to find a more comfortable position against the tree. "Our parents died when I was fifteen, Dice was twelve. Car accident. No other relatives stepped up, so we ended up in foster care. Different homes at first, but I raised hell until they placed us together."
"You've always looked out for him."
"Tried to." A wry smile crosses my face. "Not always successfully. I wasn't exactly a role model, getting into trouble, running with bad crowds. But I made sure he had what he needed. Food, clothes, someone who gave a damn."
Rebecca listens intently, judgment absent from her expression.
"When I aged out of the system, I got a place, worked whatever jobs I could find. Brought Dice to live with me as soon as he was sixteen." I shake my head, remembering. "But legitimate work doesn't pay much when you've got no education, no skills anyone values."
"So, you started stealing."
"Started small. Shoplifting, breaking into cars. Then graduated to bigger things—businesses after hours, then eventually jewelry stores, high-end targets." I shrug. "I was good at it. Quick, careful. Never hurt anyone."
"Until you got caught."
"Until I got caught," I agree. "Eighteen months for a jewelry store job that went sideways. Security system had been upgraded, I didn't know. Rookie mistake."
Rebecca absorbs this, her expression thoughtful. "And when you get out? What was the plan?"
"Was?" I raise an eyebrow. "Still is. Three days from now, I'm supposed to walk out those gates a free man. Dice has a bedroom ready for me, lined up some legit work."
"Going straight?"
"That was the idea." I gesture vaguely at my bloody bandage. "Though plans seem to be changing by the minute."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our current situation settling between us. Birds call in the trees overhead, oblivious to the human drama unfolding beneath them. The sun has lowered, casting long shadows through the woods.
"If you could do anything," Rebecca asks suddenly, "if none of this had happened, if Walsh wasn't after you. What would you want? For your life?"
It's a question no one's asked me before. What I want has always seemed irrelevant compared to what I need. Survival, taking care of Dice, staying out of prison.
"Honestly?" I meet her gaze. "Simple things. A legitimate job that pays the bills. Maybe my own place. Nothing fancy, just somewhere that's mine. No one telling me when to eat or sleep." I pause, the next words surprising me as they form. "Maybe someone to share it with someday."
Her expression softens. "That doesn't sound so impossible."
"What about you?" I counter. "What does Rebecca Johnson dream about when life isn't throwing her into prison riots and forest escapes?"
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected in our dire circumstances.
"I've always wanted to travel. See places I've only read about.
Italy, Thailand, New Zealand." Her eyes take on a faraway look.
"I'd like to use my nursing skills somewhere they're really needed.
Maybe work with Doctors Without Borders or something similar. "
"Saving the world, one patient at a time?"
"Something like that." She smiles. "And on a smaller scale, I'd like a house with a big garden. Growing things seems like a good balance to a job that often deals with the worst days of people's lives."
"You'd be good at it," I say, meaning it. "Growing things. Bringing life back."
Our eyes meet, and something awakens in the space between us.
Two people who've both lived with darkness but still look for light.
In another world, another life, I might have met her differently.
Asked her to coffee, learned her story slowly over time instead of in desperate confessions while hiding from armed pursuers.
Then a sound in the distance breaks the spell—a car engine, approaching from the direction of the road. We both tense, listening. The engine slows, then stops, somewhere near the front of the gas station.
"Could be Dice," I say, though it seems too soon.
Rebecca peeks through the trees toward the station. "I can't see from here."
I try to stand, grimacing at the pain that shoots through my abdomen. Rebecca immediately moves to help me, her arm sliding around my waist for support.
"Easy," she murmurs.
Together, we move slowly to a better vantage point, still concealed by trees but with a view of the station's parking area. What I see makes my blood run cold.
A black SUV, identical to the one we spotted on the prison security monitor, is parked beside the gas pumps. Two men in suits exit the vehicle, scanning the area. One speaks into a phone, nodding as he receives instructions.
"Walsh's men," I whisper. "They're tracking us."
Rebecca's grip on me tightens. "How? We were careful."
"The store owner, if I had to guess" I say. "He must have been suspicious, called it in or mentioned it to someone who's working with Walsh."
We watch as the men enter the store. Through the large front windows, we can see them speaking with Earl, who gestures animatedly, pointing toward the side of the building where the bathroom is located.
"We need to move," I say urgently. "They'll check the woods next."
But as I turn to retreat deeper into the forest, pain lances through my side, sharp and sudden. My knees buckle, and I grab a tree trunk to keep from falling.
"James!" Rebecca's voice is alarmed but hushed.
"I'm okay," I lie, straightening with effort. "Just moved too fast."
Her face tells me she doesn't believe me, but there's no time to argue. The men have exited the store and are heading toward the side of the building, moving with purpose.
"This way," I murmur, leading Rebecca deeper into the woods, away from the path we took from the prison. Each step sends fresh pain through my body, but fear provides enough adrenaline to keep moving.
We've gone perhaps fifty yards when a voice calls out behind us.
"I see movement! In the trees!"
Footsteps crash through underbrush, gaining rapidly. I turn to Rebecca, ready to tell her to run ahead without me, but the determination in her eyes stops me. She slides her arm more firmly around my waist.
"Together," she says, no room for argument in her voice. "We're staying together."
There's no time to debate. We push forward, my arm draped over her shoulder, her small frame somehow supporting a significant portion of my weight. We're moving too slowly, though. The footsteps behind us grow louder.
We reach a small clearing, and I know we can't outrun them. My strength is fading fast, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. The stitches in my side pull and burn.
"Stop," I tell Rebecca, pulling away from her support. "Get behind me."
"What? No—"
"Please," I say, positioning myself between her and the approaching footsteps. "If it's me they want, maybe I can talk them down."
She opens her mouth to argue, but it's too late. Two men burst into the clearing, both holding handguns. They slow when they spot us, smiles spreading across their faces.
"Thompson," one says, satisfaction in his voice. "End of the line."
I straighten as much as my injured body allows, keeping Rebecca firmly behind me. "What does Walsh want with me? Those watches were years ago. Hardly seems worth all this."
The men exchange glances. The second one laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"You think this is about watches? Man, you really don't know, do you?"
They advance slowly, guns trained on us. I feel Rebecca's hands grip the back of my shirt, but she doesn't cower or make a sound. Brave woman.
"Look," I say, hands slightly raised. "Whatever this is about, it doesn't involve her. Let her go, and I'll come quietly."
"No deal," the first man replies. "Walsh wants both of you now. Can't have witnesses."
Fear shoots through me. Not for myself, but for Rebecca. She doesn't deserve this. All she did was help someone in need.
"Last chance," I warn, though it's an empty threat. In my condition, I'm no match for two armed men.
They move closer, just fifteen feet away now. I brace myself, mind racing for any way out of this situation.
And then, like an answer to an unspoken prayer, a new sound cuts through the forest. The distinctive rumble of motorcycle engines, multiple bikes approaching fast.
Hope surges through me. Dice. The Outlaw Order. They're coming.
The men hear it too, hesitating, glancing toward the road where the sound is coming from.
"We need to move," the first one says urgently. "Grab them both."
But the second man pauses, suddenly uncertain. "That sounds like a lot of bikes."
The engines grow louder, then cut off abruptly—close, very close. Voices call out, branches snap as people move through the forest.
A familiar voice echoes through the trees. "James!"
Dice. My little brother.
"Here!" I shout, my voice stronger than I expected. "Clearing! Armed men!"
The Walsh enforcers look panicked now, caught between completing their mission and self-preservation. The first man aims his gun directly at my chest.
"Don't move," he warns. "Anyone comes through those trees, you die first."
But footsteps are already crashing toward us from multiple directions. The men back up slightly, guns swinging between us and the trees surrounding the clearing.
"James!" The voice is closer now. Then two figures burst into the clearing from opposite sides. Dice and, to my surprise, Maddie.
Dice, my brother, has grown in the eighteen months since I last saw him. Taller, broader, wearing the leather prospect cut of the Outlaw Order MC. His face, so similar to mine but younger, is contorted with rage when he sees the guns pointed at me.
Maddie, my best and oldest friend, looks exactly the same. Wild dark hair, fierce eyes, the dangerous grace of a woman who's survived more than her share of trouble. She has a gun in her hand, aimed steadily at the nearest Walsh enforcer.
"Drop the weapons," she says, her voice deadly calm. "Or I drop you."
More people emerge from the trees. Men in leather cuts with the Outlaw Order patch, all armed, forming a circle around the clearing. The Walsh men are outnumbered eight to two. The fight leaves them visibly. They exchange glances, then slowly lower their guns.
"This isn't over," the first man says, but his voice lacks conviction.
"For today, it is," Dice replies, moving to my side. His eyes widen when he sees the blood seeping through my shirt. "Jesus, James. What happened?"
"Long story," I manage, relief making my knees weak. "This is Rebecca. She saved my life."
Rebecca still stands close behind me, her hand now on my arm, supporting me as much as seeking support.
Maddie approaches, her gun still trained on the Walsh men while others from the MC disarm them. Her eyes flick to Rebecca, assessing, then back to me.
"You look like shit, James," she says, but her voice is gentle. "Let's get you out of here."
Dice slides his arm around me, taking my weight as Rebecca steps back. "The van's on the service road. We're rushing to the clubhouse. You'll be safe there."
I nod, suddenly exhausted now that the immediate danger has passed. "What about these guys?" I nod toward the Walsh enforcers.
"We'll have a chat with them," one of the other MC members says, a cold smile on his face.
I want to argue, tell them it's too dangerous, that Walsh is clearly more connected than we realized. But darkness is creeping into the edges of my vision, the adrenaline fading and pain taking its place.
"Rebecca comes with us," I manage to say. "She's in danger now too."
Dice nods, looking at her with newfound respect. "Anyone who saves my brother's life is family. We'll protect you."
Rebecca seems overwhelmed, her eyes moving from face to face, but she nods. "Thank you."
As Dice and Maddie help me toward the waiting van, I look back at Rebecca, following close behind. Our eyes meet, and despite the pain and danger, despite the uncertain future ahead, I feel something I haven't felt in a very long time.
Hope.
My brother found me. My best friend came for me. And somehow, in the middle of chaos, I found Rebecca, or she found me. Whatever comes next, we're not facing it alone.
For now, that's enough.