Chapter Four
White Ravens
Scar
The county of Tyrel, North Carolina, was a sprawling metropolis of three stoplights between stretches of fields, and a whopping twelve hundred people strong.
Downtown was one street of a handful of flaking brick buildings, a post office only open on Fridays, a diner that still sold fifty-cent cups of coffee, a two-pump gas station, and a general store where items could be bartered with goods instead of money.
He’d left the barn and Gage hours ago, and his fucking chest was still tight enough to crush his lungs.
More than once, he’d almost turned around, but he kept telling himself Gage would just slow him down, kept telling himself that until he believed it.
His life motto was “every man for himself.” He believed ninety percent of the world didn’t care about his problems and the other ten were glad he had them.
There’d been a time when he ran a crew of men, women, and teenagers who’d pledged their loyalty to him, but not a soul had come to see him, nor written him a single letter, when he’d gotten locked up.
He was glad he never expected it, that way it didn’t hurt him.
Scar was realistic, practical, and brilliant in his own right. He’d never been good at the classes high school said would matter.
Geometry was as useless as it sounded, science was used to save lives, Scar took them. Proper English couldn’t be comprehended in his neighborhood—the block had its own language—and geography was only needed if life would’ve given him an opportunity to leave the hood and travel… it hadn’t.
So instead, he enrolled in the gang curriculum and obtained a doctorate in street survival.
He excelled in the subjects that kept him alive: stealing, lying, cheating, and anatomy for more efficient killing.
To get out of Tyrel, he’d have to apply his major in thievery and masters in common sense.
First thing he had to do was disappear…not blend in.
In a town full of flannel, khaki, and faded denim, he stuck out like a demon in church in his filthy white scrubs and blinding shock of snow-white hair. White. Not gray or silver. Not blond in harsh lighting. Fucking snow-white as if he’d dunked his head in a sack of flour.
He needed toiletries, clothes…then food.
However, cash was a dying staple and cards ruled…even in the sticks.
He’d need to lift and swipe fast before the person realized their wallet was gone and froze their card with a thirty-second phone call to their bank.
He was able to move like oxygen. Silent, fluid, and in and out as necessary.
His first mark was a construction worker standing outside the diner, waiting for his friend to finish paying his tab. He had a trusting face and the kind of relaxed posture that came with the environment.
Scar started walking with his head down, face hidden by a swath of white.
The guy smiled wide and threw his hand up in a greeting at someone across the street. Scar brushed past him, grazing the man’s shoulder.
“Oh, sorry, friend, didn’t see ya,” Scar muttered, never breaking stride.
His talking was a distraction while he slipped two fingers into the man’s back pocket, clutched the edge of leather, and slid it free without a whisper.
“No problem, buddy. Have a good one,” he called out, oblivious that his wallet was already ten paces away.
Scar ducked into the alley behind the gas station, which had no surveillance or foot traffic, only the stink of a dumpster that smelled as if it were emptied once a month.
He flipped the wallet open and quickly scanned the contents.
Thirty-four bucks, two Visas, a debit card, a gas card, a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, and a hole punch coupon for the local creamery.
Too bad. The guy was just two punches away from a free whizzy cream.
Scar pulled out the driver’s license.
Dale Carmichael, forty-eight, dusty-blond hair, big cheesy grin, and a face only a mother could love.
Good.
Men like Dale never canceled fast. They didn’t believe anything bad could happen to them, especially not in the daytime. Instead he’d spend the rest of the day retracing his steps.
Scar pocketed the cash, kept one Visa, tossed the rest into the trash, and walked out of the alley chewing on a stick of gum.
The first rule when shopping on someone else’s dime was to make each transaction short but sweet and not be greedy. Only get the essentials. Not many noticed twenty dollars here, sixteen dollars there, missing from their account.
It’d be dumb to buy a five-hundred-dollar wardrobe from Christy’s Clothing Barn, or two lumberjack T-bone breakfasts for sixty dollars at the Dusty Fork diner—regardless that he was hungry enough to eat it all.
The keyword was: necessities.
He hit the general store first. There was one employee, a young guy with his head buried in his phone.
There were two cameras, both facing the register, so all he had to do was keep his body at an angle.
He touched as little as possible, bypassing a cart and propping his items in the crook of his arm.
He chose a two-pack of disposable razors, toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste, three energy bars, a basic black hoodie, a pair of no-name denims, wool socks, and a black beanie to hide his hair.
The kid rang up his items and gave him his total, barely sparing him a glance. “Twenty-one, eighty-five.”
Scar swiped Dale’s card, scribbled an ineligible signature on the receipt, and was out the door before the ink could dry.
He cleaned up in the gas station bathroom and changed into clothes no one would remember.
He used the cash to buy a cup of black coffee and a prepaid phone with enough minutes to contact a couple of his boys when he got to Chicago.
So far, he was making good time. He wanted out of Tyrell as fast as he’d come into it.
Renting a car was too risky, and stealing one was an even worse idea.
It was a trusting enough town to pick up hitchhikers, but the driver would want to make conversation and ask too many questions.
He’d have to walk.
Moving fast through the next county, he stole two more wallets before three that afternoon with the ease of taking candy from a baby.
He wedged between two businessmen walking down the street and emerged on the other side a hundred and seventy dollars richer.
A man about his age, who’d just finished a transaction at the ATM, provided him with eighty more dollars, a Mastercard, and an ID that could pass as his to purchase a bus ticket.
Taking a plane to Chicago wasn’t an option. Greyhound was too risky, with too many ID scanners and cameras mounted over the drivers’ heads. So he opted for a regional line with a name he’d never heard of and a bus that looked as if it was one missed oil change away from being out of commission.
He approached the ticket counter with a lazy gait as if he didn’t have someplace better to be and sighed, “One way to West Harrington, Chicago.”
The attendant tapped a few keys on her computer with three-inch hot pink nails, squinting at the screen, before she said around a wad of gum, “The one-way doesn’t leave until nine tomorrow morning. The driver canceled tonight’s departure… He’s sick.”
Fuck!
Scar pretended he wasn’t fazed as he slid the ID and credit card under the scratched plexiglass.
The woman didn’t bother to compare jawlines and eye color as she scanned the Mastercard and waited for the approval.
Scar pocketed his ticket and receipt. Head down and shoulders hunched, he walked through the bus station doors.
It smelled like wet coats, nicotine, and bleach.
A few warped plastic chairs were bolted into the stained linoleum and the three vending machines against the far wall were so old he didn’t trust he wouldn’t contract a stomach virus from the contents.
There were fewer than a handful of people waiting inside.
One couple appeared to be actual ticket holders, while the others seemed to be looking for a warm, dry place to hunker down for the night.
Scar quickly counted the exits, and scanned for potential threats, before he made a beeline for the restroom.
His stomach turned in on itself. He was cold, hungry, and ready to be far away from the East Coast and the monsters who’d done whatever it was they’d done to him.
The Ravens said he could do his time on the outside by serving his country. They’d fed him a nice story, backed by an inspirational pep talk about second chances, but he’d looked the director in his eyes and knew it was all a con.
Scar had been reading people his entire life and was smart enough to know not to trust anyone offering him something he hadn’t earned. No one was generous without motive. Mercy wasn’t granted without blood, and freedom was taken, not given.
But he’d been presented with the choice of a few needle pricks and experiments or living in a six-by-eight cell at ADX Florence penitentiary for the next sixty years.
It would’ve been foolish not to take it…and figure out how to escape later.
He washed his face and brushed his teeth at the corroded sink, then checked himself in the mirror, not recognizing the face and eyes staring back at him.
What the fuck have I done?
He pressed his back to the wall and slid down until his ass hit the floor. He let his bag rest between his legs as he dropped his chin against his chest.
He didn’t mean it to, but under the dim lights, his mind drifted to dark memories of prying hands, elastic straps, and the hiss of air through plastic tubing.
Voices talked at him as if he were a specimen, not a human.
“Increase dose by twenty milligrams.”
“He’s not responding.”
“Push ten ccs of adrenaline.”
“Hold him still.”
He could still smell the chemical crud that’d raced up his throat and tasted like old pennies.
“It’ll be over soon,” someone said, but he hadn’t believed them.
His heart jolted, ricocheting in his ribs as if he were asleep and dreaming, but he was reliving it while wide awake.
He should’ve been exhausted. Instead, something in him continued to rev high and hard, as if his body was an engine that wouldn’t idle down.