34. Axel
34
AXEL
T he flashing red and blue lights pierce through the darkness ahead. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I spot the line of patrol cars blocking the road.
“Fuck,” Rico curses. “They’ve set up roadblocks already?”
I glance at Willow beside me. Her face is pale in the dashboard light, but her eyes meet mine with unwavering trust. That look sends a surge of something unfamiliar through my chest.
“Everyone stay calm.” I ease off the gas, scanning the tree line. The cruisers are about half a mile ahead, giving us options. “Tommy, you still got that map?”
“Yeah, boss.” Paper rustles behind me.
Years of planning escape routes in prison have trained my mind for moments like this. I spot a logging trail cutting through the woods to our right—barely visible, but it’s there.
“Hold on.” I wrench the wheel hard, cutting the headlights as we veer onto the dirt path. Branches scrape against the sides of the car. Willow grabs the dashboard but doesn’t make a sound.
The rough trail threatens to break the car apart, but I know these backwoods routes. They were part of my contingency planning, memorized from maps I had Tommy smuggle in. The police would expect us to panic, to try outrunning them on the main roads. They don’t expect calculated moves.
“There’s an old fire road that connects back to Route 16,” I say, navigating around a fallen log. “They won’t have time to reposition their blockade before we’re past it.”
The chatter that usually fills my head, screaming for violence, is silent, replaced by crystal-clear focus. I do this best by staying three steps ahead and turning chaos into opportunity.
Willow’s hand finds mine on the gearshift. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“When it comes to keeping you safe?” I squeeze her fingers. “Always.”
The car bounces through a shallow creek and then starts climbing. I can see the distant lights of the roadblock behind us growing fainter through the trees. They have no idea we’ve already slipped past their net.
The logging trail opens onto a wider dirt road when Rico clears his throat. “Sorry, boss, but Marcus’s crew is offering double what you promised for turning you in.”
My muscles tense as I process his words. The quiet voices suddenly roar to life, demanding blood. Through the rearview mirror, I catch Rico pulling out a phone.
“Already made the call. They’re waiting up ahead.”
Without hesitation, I slam on the brakes and spin the wheel. Rico lunges forward, grabbing for my throat. The car fishtails on the loose dirt as I elbow him hard in the face. Blood sprays across the backseat.
“Tommy, get that phone!” I shout, wrestling with the wheel as Rico’s weight throws us off balance.
The car careens through the trees, branches snapping against the windshield. Willow screams as Rico’s hands lock around my neck from behind. My vision starts to blur.
Tommy scrambles to grab the phone, but Rico kicks him. The car swerves violently. I catch glimpses of tree trunks rushing past as I fight to maintain control.
“You fucking traitor,” I snarl, releasing the wheel to grab Rico’s wrist. The car lurches sideways.
Rico slams my head against the window. Glass cracks. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on his arm. He howls but doesn’t let go.
The car hits something—a tree, a rock, I can’t tell. We’re airborne for a moment. The world spins. Metal screams against the wood. The windshield explodes inward in a shower of glass.
The impact throws Rico forward between the seats. His grip loosens. I drive my elbow back into his throat, feeling cartilage crunch. The car flips, and everything goes sideways.
We roll once, twice, the roof caving in. Willow’s head whips forward. Tommy yells. Rico goes silent. The car finally crashes to a stop on its side, steam hissing from the crumpled hood.
My head throbs as I blink away blood from my eyes. The car lies twisted on its side, metal groaning. Through the shattered windshield, I see trees tilted at the wrong angles.
“Willow?” My voice comes out ragged. She hangs limp in her seatbelt beside me, a gash across her forehead. Fear claws at my chest—a new, unwelcome sensation. I reach for her neck, finding a steady pulse.
The movement in the back catches my attention. Tommy stirs, moaning. Rico lies motionless, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. Good. Saves me the trouble of killing him myself.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and brace against the door frame. “Tommy, you still with us?”
“Yeah.” His voice is pained. “Think my arm’s broken.”
“Can you move?”
“Think so.”
Willow’s eyes flutter open. Relief floods through me—another foreign feeling I’ll examine later. “Stay still,” I tell her, supporting her head. “You might have a concussion.”
“The police...” she mumbles.
“Won’t find us here.” I check her pupils. Equal and reactive. “But Marcus’s crew will be coming. We need to move.”
The driver’s side door is crushed shut. I kick out what’s left of the windshield, carefully keeping the glass from hitting Willow.
“Tommy, help me get her out.”
Together, we ease Willow through the windshield. She stumbles but stays upright, holding her head. I scan the woods, listening for engines or sirens. Nothing yet.
“There’s a hunting cabin two miles east,” I say, orienting myself. “We can regroup there.”
Rico’s body shifts in the wreckage. Not dead, after all. His eyes open, filled with hate. Before he can move, I grab a jagged piece of windshield glass.
The voices roar back to life, demanding blood, and I’m happy to oblige them.
I wipe the blood from my hands on Rico’s shirt, watching the last twitches of life leave his body. The urges subside, satisfied with his death. They always prefer traitors.
They’re always there, these voices—sometimes a deafening chorus, sometimes a whisper. Violence feeds and temporarily satisfies them, like throwing meat at wild dogs. But only Willow silences them completely. It’s like she exists on a frequency that disrupts their signal, creating moments of pure clarity I’ve never known before.
“We need to move.” I turn to Willow and Tommy. She’s leaning against a tree, still unsteady. Tommy cradles his broken arm, face pale in the moonlight.
“Can you walk?” I ask Willow, touching her cheek gently. The gash on her forehead has stopped bleeding, but she’ll need stitches.
“Yes.” Her voice is stronger now. “Just dizzy.”
I grab the backpack with our supplies from the wreck.”
The cabin’s this way.” I take Willow’s arm, supporting her weight. “Tommy, stay close. Marcus’s crew on the outside will be searching this area, fucking MCs always stick together even when their boss is locked up.”
We move through the forest, keeping to the shadows. Every snap of a twig makes Tommy jump. But even the whispers in my head are unusually focused, attuned to real threats. They’ve always been good at sensing danger.
Willow stumbles. I catch her before she falls, pulling her against my chest. The scent of her hair drowns out the copper smell of blood still fresh on my hands.
“Almost there,” I whisper, surprised by the gentleness in my voice. “Just hold on a little longer.”
She nods, fingers gripping my shirt. The trust in her touch should make me feel weak. Instead, it feeds something else inside me—something stronger than the bloodlust and more potent than the voices’ demands for violence.
The night wraps around us like a shroud as we push deeper into the woods, leaving Rico’s cooling body and our ruined escape vehicle behind. Somewhere ahead lies the cabin and, beyond that, freedom. But first, we need to survive the night.