Chapter 16 Axel #2
“I need to warn her,” I said. “She’s not just the pastor’s daughter. If Maple finds out we got this close, he’ll use her to get to us.”
Vin grunted. “You sure she’s not already playing both sides?”
I didn’t answer that. Not because I didn’t have doubts, but because saying them out loud made it worse.
Red cut in, “If you’re gonna see her, do it somewhere off grid. Burn your phone before you leave.”
Vin pushed back from the table, chair scraping the floor like a gunshot. “All right. Everyone stays sharp. Nobody rides alone, nobody talks unless they have to. This town’s about to go nuclear.”
He looked at me, and for the first time in months, there was something like concern under the menace. “You take care of business, Axel. But watch your ass. That Bible-thumping piece of shit has eyes everywhere.”
I nodded and headed for the door, feeling every eye in the room on my back.
Outside, the night was black and empty, but I could feel the pulse of something ugly moving through the dark—faster and meaner than anything we’d ever faced before.
My phone vibrated with a message from Darla: “midnight sandwich.” Our stupid code. It meant she was in trouble.
I twisted the throttle and let the engine scream.
If the whole damn town was going to hell, I’d at least make sure she had a ride out.
***
I took the river road fast, every pothole punching straight up my spine, the Harley spitting gravel into black nothing behind me.
The moon was a hangnail above the clouds, just bright enough to show the path but not enough to make me feel safe.
I killed the engine half a mile from the drop, then walked the rest, boots crunching through dead leaves and shards of broken beer bottles.
The river stank of mud and runoff, and the old boathouse squatted by the bank, half its siding caved in, roof patched with blue tarps and prayers.
Darla waited by the porch, pacing in tight circles, her hair down and wild, wind whipping the loose dress she wore into a flag of surrender.
She checked her phone every five seconds, but the light from the screen just made her eyes look more hollow.
I watched her from the shadow of a busted pine, not because I didn’t trust her, but because I couldn’t stop feeling like a target. Years of instinct didn’t die easy.
She saw me and froze. For a second, she looked like she might run, then her body just slumped, and she stumbled toward me, head down. “You said midnight,” she hissed, voice breaking. “It’s almost one.”
“I had to make sure I wasn’t tailed.” I scanned the tree line, then closed the distance, letting her smell the road and sweat on my jacket. She pressed herself into me, fists balled in the leather, trembling. I could feel every bone in her, like she was built from glass.
“Tell me you’re okay,” she whispered.
“Princess, I’m fine. But we need to move fast.”
She wiped at her face with the heel of her palm, making a streak of black down her cheek.
I tried to ignore how much it looked like a bruise.
I reached for her hand and led her to the boathouse, the door hanging off the hinge, and we ducked inside.
It was even colder in there, the smell of rot and gasoline mixing with river damp.
She was the first to break. “Is it true?” she said, voice shaking. “What my father is doing?”
I flicked on the tiny penlight I kept in my vest and pointed it at the ledger pages and the phone. “You need to see this.”
She stared at the photos. At first, her face was blank.
Then her mouth twisted, and she staggered to the side, grabbing the splintered bench for balance.
“That’s real?” Her voice was so small I almost missed it.
“Those people—” She ran her finger over the screen, then dropped the phone as if it bit her.
“Oh my God. Oh my fucking God, Axel, what is this?”
“It’s your dad’s idea of saving the city. Guns, meth, smuggling people in from god knows where. They’re keeping them in containers. Like cattle.”
She covered her mouth and shook her head, but the tears came anyway, hot and angry.
She pounded the wall with her fist and let out a sound so raw it startled me.
For a long minute, she just sobbed, shoulders heaving, hair hiding her face.
I wanted to say something, anything, but every word I could think of sounded like a lie.
She straightened, wiped her nose, and stared at me like she was looking for a fight. “Why’d you bring this to me? Why not just go to the cops?”
I laughed, a mean bark. “Cops are in his pocket. Maybe the Feds, but even then, it’s a coin toss. If I went public, we’d both be dead before sunrise.”
She turned away, clutching her arms like she could hold herself together. “So what do we do?”
“First, we get you safe. Then we blow his whole operation sky-high.”
She spun, eyes blazing. “I’m not running. Not from him. Not from anybody.”
God, she was reckless. And beautiful in a way that made it hard to think.
The river wind kicked up, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass in the windows.
I moved closer, hands out, not sure if I was going to comfort her or hold her back from self-destruction.
She made the decision for me, surging forward and kissing me with a desperation I’d never tasted before.
We crashed to the workbench, knocking over a can of rusty nails that scattered like dice across the concrete.
Her lips found my neck, biting, angry. I gripped her hips, feeling her heart beating wild under my fingers.
She tore open the snaps on my vest, her breath hot in my ear.
“Prove I’m real,” she gasped. “Prove I’m not him. ”
I picked her up and slammed her back against the wall, hard enough to make the studs groan.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, grinding against me, her dress bunched up and panties already soaked through.
I yanked them down, felt the heat of her, the pure fucking need.
She unzipped me with shaking hands, then grabbed my cock, guiding it into her in one smooth, furious motion.
She bit my shoulder to keep from screaming, nails digging bloody crescents into my back.
I fucked her hard, fast, like we were racing death itself.
The whole building felt like it might collapse, every thrust echoing in the rafters, dust falling from the ceiling.
The world shrank down to her breath, her body, her pain, and mine tangled together.
She dug her fingers into my hair, pulling me into a kiss that tasted of salt and defiance.
We finished together, muscles locked, eyes shut tight. I held her there, bodies shaking, until the adrenaline faded and only the cold and shame were left.
She slid down to her feet, breath ragged. “Sorry,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
“Don’t be.” I zipped up and leaned against the bench, heart still jackhammering. “Sometimes you gotta remind yourself you’re alive.”
She laughed, bitter. “You sound like my dad.”
The shame hit deeper than any punch. I looked away, staring at the battered walls. “You want to get out of here? I can stash you with friends—clubhouse, maybe out of state. Safe until this is over.”
She shook her head. “If I run, he’ll just find me. He always does.”
I reached into my boot and pulled out the switchblade I’d taken from Shivs. “Take this, at least.”
She tucked it into her bra, eyes hard. “You really think I’ll need it?”
“I think your father’s already got people looking. You can’t trust anyone. Not even the old ladies at church.”
She nodded, then looked up, fear and rage wrestling for control. “What about us?”
I thought about lying. About saying we’d ride into the sunset, fuck this town, start over in Mexico or some shit. But that wasn’t our story. I took her face in my hands, kissed her slow this time. “We survive. That’s all I know.”
A sudden flare of headlights slashed through the cracked window, hitting us both dead-on. I killed the flashlight, shoved the phone and papers into my jacket, and pulled her down behind the bench. A heavy engine idled outside, then the sound of boots on the porch.
Darla squeezed my hand, knuckles white. I mouthed, “Stay.”
I crept to the door, peeking through the gap. Bart. Alone, maybe—but that didn’t mean shit. He scanned the room, gun out and ready, then moved along the wall toward the river.
I turned back to Darla, whispered, “Run. Now. Meet me at the old gas station off 24. Don’t look back.”
She nodded once, then slipped through the side window, silent as a ghost.
I waited for Bart to get closer, then chucked a rock at the back wall. He spun, fired a round into the dark. I bolted, leading him down the dock, heart hammering, every footstep on the wood sounding like a starter pistol.
Bart was fast, but he was predictable. He took the straight line; I went for cover, ducking under the collapsed deck, mud and river water soaking my jeans. I circled behind him, popped up, and got a look at his face—stone calm, no fear, just the cold focus of a man doing a job.
He shouted, “Martin! Come out, and I’ll make it quick!”
I laughed, spitting river water. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, Hammer.”
He fired again, the shot ripping a two-by-four apart a foot from my head.
I rolled, came up behind the tire pile, and sprinted for my bike.
I heard Bart cussing and crashing through the reeds, but by the time he got back to the road, I was already firing up the Harley, the pipes screaming into the night.
I peeled out, took the first corner blind, and didn’t stop until the town lights faded behind me.
At the gas station, I found Darla waiting by the pumps, arms wrapped around herself. She looked up as I coasted in, eyes wide but not surprised.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “Are you?”
“Not even close,” I said, and smiled for the first time in days.
She climbed on the back, arms tight around my waist. We rode out into the dark, two lost souls running from God and everyone else.