Chapter Twenty
R ogue was glad he had taken them down the coastal route instead of the more popular Highway 5. It really was too bad it was dark outside because the drive down Highway 101 was beautiful during the day. In the morning, the view would be spectacular with the sun rising in the East.
The sun began to rise about five hours later and just past Carmel, he felt comfortable enough to get a motel room.
He was running on empty and that wasn’t good for their safety.
With Boston passed out in the other queen bed, Rogue checked the room and out of habit, he reinforced the door with the desk chair beneath the knob. Shutting the blackout curtains, he crashed on the other queen bed and stared at the ceiling for most of the day.
He did manage to sleep a few hours and thankfully, without nightmares. When Boston ordered pizza around five that evening, Rogue managed to pass back out until dark.
“Hey, Rogue?”
“Yeah?” He came awake quickly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Rolling over, he found Boston watching a movie on TV and picking at the crumbs in the pizza box.
“You were making choking sounds.”
“Sorry,” he said gruffly and scooted from the bed. I’ll take a shower, and we’ll hit the road.”
“I like traveling at night,” Boston said, jumping to his feet and shutting off the television.
“Me too.” He snagged a towel on his way to the bathroom and took a hot shower.
On the road after getting ready, his stomach was growling about an hour and a half later. Just past the city of San Lucas, he stopped to get gas and got back on the road.
Finding a diner not far down the highway, he pulled into the parking lot. The place was one of those chains located up and down the highway boasting of gas and food.
Rogue pulled his truck around the building to park, and even though the parking lot was almost deserted, he never parked around other vehicles. A few long haulers and one other car were parked there and when he and Boston entered the diner, Rogue noted two men eating at the counter and a man and woman in a booth.
“Pick a seat,” the waitress called out from behind the counter and grabbed two menus.
Rogue picked a booth that he could get out of quickly and gave him a clear view of every section in the place except the kitchen. Most importantly, he could see the front door as well as the parking lot through the diner’s wall-to-wall glass windows.
When Boston sat across from him, Rogue nodded toward the menu. “Get what you want.”
Forty minutes later, a low rumbling from the parking lot drew his gaze from his second cup of coffee and he watched as several men on motorcycles and a few dusty pickup trucks rolled up. They parked their hogs together with the trucks, so Rogue figured they were a gang.
Boston tossed a hurried look over his shoulder and sucked in a small choking breath, but Rogue heard it.
“I have to use the bathroom,” Boston whispered, not looking at him, and darted from the booth to walk quickly down the back hall.
Was the kid worried about strangers? Or was there something about the gang coming through the door that had sent Boston running?
They were noisy when they entered, not caring about other customers, and when a big one in front, obviously the leader, stopped at the counter behind the two men, they hurriedly pushed away their plates and left the diner.
That left him and the couple in the far booth remaining. The man in the booth suddenly urged the woman to her feet and quickly paid the bill before leaving.
One of the bikers heckled and fingered the woman’s sweater when the couple hurried past. She gasped, jerked away, and the couple practically ran out the door.
Rogue sipped at his cooling coffee. He figured he was two hours away from Dave’s place and then he’d drive home, back to Oxnard.
Why not stay at Wrath’s place, a little voice whispered in his head. He lived in Santa Barbara not far from Dave’s house.
He nixed the idea, but it wouldn’t go away as he swallowed more coffee. He would need to speak with Wrath at some point, he silently reasoned.
The gang of nine were harassing the waitress and Rogue knew the exact moment one of them noticed him. Easing one hand away from his mug, he pulled his weapon from the inside of his coat and held it beneath the table.
It wasn’t his only weapon; he had his knives. The short swords had been left at home, but he wouldn’t need them.
Boston had yet to come back from the bathroom, but none of the gang had walked back there and Rogue hoped the boy stayed hidden.
“Hello, friend,” the ringleader said after being elbowed by one of his group who pointed him out at the booth.
Rogue didn’t answer. Instead, he tossed several bills on the table and moved to his feet when the pair took a step in his direction.
He wasn’t sure if it was his size or the look in his eyes that caused them to stop approaching, but something stopped them.
Solomon had told him that he always had a “don’t fuck with me” look about him so maybe that was it.
Or just maybe it was the Sig Sauer he brought up to rest sideways against his chest. He caressed the gun with his free hand and stared the leader in the eyes.
With a widened gaze, the man lifted his palms forward to about waist-high, as if to try and calm him down.
“Not looking for trouble, mister,” the leader said. “My name is Doug Smalls and I’m looking for a kid who killed my boss.”
They were looking for Boston, Rogue knew it like he knew that someone was going to die today.
Their only problem with killing the boy was that he was in their way.
But they didn’t know that.
Not yet.
“Found him!” a voice shouted from the hallway. “He’s holed up in the bathroom.”
Rogue’s phone buzzed with a text message, and he was thankful all over again that he’d given Boston his number. He tugged the phone out, briefly glanced at the text, and then tucked it away.
Without a word, he stepped toward the gang, and that was only because they were in his way to the fucking door. They moved back slowly, watching him, watching the weapon in his hand, only the shuffle of feet was heard.
Rogue went out the front door of the diner, but not with his back to them. And all the while, his flat gaze stayed locked on Smalls—as if to silently say, “The first bullet is yours, motherfucker.”
Smalls stayed put and when the man’s gang started to walk forward, Smalls stuck out an arm to keep them back.
That was a smart move on the man’s part.
Once outside, Rogue disappeared into the woods at the back of the diner, near the side where his truck was parked.
Boston’s text had been simple.
I went out the window, truck is locked. I’ll meet you in the woods.
There was no sign of the boy, but Rogue figured Boston was hunkered down in the darkness, hiding.
Silencing his phone, Rogue started working his way slowly through the heavily wooded area. He figured this was part of Los Padres National Forest since they’d were in Monterey County just past San Lucas.
Having grown up in Southern California and traveling for jobs all up and down the state, he knew the area like the back of his hand. He also knew that around this time of year, it could get down into the 40s and Boston didn’t have a coat.
The sky broke open and rain started, and Rogue used that to his advantage to quicken his search.
One way or another, he would get Boson back.
No matter how many people had to die tonight.
There was no familiar rush of the kill for him, he’d been doing this too fucking long to feel anything.
Death was who he was.
Killing was what he did.