Chapter 12 #3
Who I killed in a Houston alley two years ago without an ounce of regret.
I should have thrown this away years ago.
I tear it in half. Then quarters.
Then smaller and smaller pieces until it's confetti in my hands, his face unrecognizable, our fake happiness shredded beyond repair.
I throw it in the trash without looking back.
Fuck you, Andrés. You don't get to haunt me anymore.
I finish packing in silence, moving through the apartment on autopilot.
Clothes, books, the few things worth keeping.
Everything fits into two duffel bags and a backpack.
Three years of my life reduced to luggage I can carry on a bike.
Sharp, Texas appears on my GPS after thirty-three minutes of highway driving.
The sun is starting to set, painting everything gold and orange.
The landscape shifts from Austin's urban sprawl to something quieter, more open.
Rural Texas with a wide sky and endless horizon.
I take the exit, follow the GPS through town.
Main Street is exactly what I expected—small, quiet, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone.
There's a diner called Rosie's with a neon sign flickering in the window.
A hardware store. A gas station with ancient pumps. A few shops that look like they've been there since the seventies.
And there—on the corner—the garage I noticed on my first drive through.
Sharp Auto & Cycle Repair.
I pull into the parking lot, kill the engine, just sit there staring.
It's bigger than I thought.
Two garage bays, both currently closed.
Clean exterior, well-maintained.
Through the front window I can see someone moving around inside—closing up for the day, probably.
And taped to the front door: "HELP WANTED - Mechanic/Bike Specialist."
My heart stutters.
I could do this. I'm good with bikes.
Great with them, actually.
I could work here, build a reputation, maybe save up and open my own shop eventually.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the sign.
Evidence. Proof this is real.
I drive to Rosie's Diner, park, walk inside.
The bell above the door chimes and every head turns—small town reflexes.
Strangers always get noticed.
The waitress—fifty-something with kind eyes and a name tag that says "Barb"—waves me toward a seat at the counter. "Anywhere you like, honey."
I sit and order coffee, black.
She brings it steaming hot in a chipped mug. "You passing through or staying?"
"Not sure yet. Just looking around."
"Well, we could use some young blood around here. Town's dying slowly. All the kids move to Austin or San Antonio soon as they graduate." She refills the coffee of a man two seats down. "You got people here?"
"Yeah, still figuring it out."
She smiles like she understands. "Well, good luck with that."
I drink my coffee slowly, listening to the locals talk.
Ranchers discussing cattle prices.
Someone complaining about their truck breaking down again.
Normal small-town conversation.
It's so different from Florida. From Austin. From anywhere I've been in three years.
It feels right.
When I’m done with my coffee, I pull out my phone, and search "Sharp Shooter Ranch directions."
It's seven minutes away and my heart starts pounding.
The attack isn't for a couple of days, but he's there right now, preparing for war.
And I don't want to wait anymore.
I don't want to spend another night without him.
Even if all I can do is be nearby. Even if I have to wait outside the gate. At least I'll be close.
I pay for my coffee and leave Barb a few dollar tip, then head out to my bike.
The GPS takes me down increasingly rural roads.
Pavement turns to dirt.
Civilization falls away until it's just me and open land stretching in every direction.
Fences occasionally.
Cattle in the distance.
Sky so big it feels like I could fall into it.
Then I see it.
A massive wooden gate rising out of the landscape like a border between worlds.
Above it, an iron sign hanging from a wooden crossbeam, letters formed from wrought iron: SHARP SHOOTER RANCH.
Security cameras mounted on posts.
Tall fencing extending in both directions as far as I can see.
This isn't just a ranch. This is a fortress.
This is where he is.
I pull up to the gate and kill the engine.
My hands are shaking.
A prospect emerges from a small guard shack I didn't notice at first.
Young guy, maybe nineteen, Shotgun Saints prospect patch on his cut.
Tattoos covering his forearms.
Cautious expression. Hand resting near his hip where I'm guessing there's a weapon.
"Can I help you?" His voice is polite but firm.
I pull off my helmet, shake out my hair.
"I'm looking for Bravos."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Who's asking?"
This is it. The moment where I claim it. Where I stop running and start choosing.
I take a breath.
"I'm Bravos' ol' lady."
The words feel terrifying and true and right all at once.
The prospect's eyebrows shoot up. Shock clear on his face. His patch says Ford.
"His what?"
"His ol' lady." I meet his eyes. "Can you let me in?"
Ford stares at me like I just announced I'm the Queen of England. "Bravos has an ol' lady?"
"As of about two seconds ago, yeah."
He's still staring and I'm still waiting.
The moment stretches.
Then Ford reaches for the radio clipped to his belt, brings it to his mouth, eyes never leaving my face.
"Uh, Phantom? We've got a situation at the gate..."