Chapter 53
NOAH
The shrieking of sirens bounces off the sheer limestone walls, a chaotic, overlapping scream that promises a cage if they catch us, but that’s the thing…
They have to catch us first.
I cut the handlebars hard, veering off the paved access road and plunging us onto a dirt haul road. The Morenci Mine isn’t just a hole in the ground; it’s a mechanized hellscape of terraced rock, towering dirt berms, and industrial steel.
The air instantly turns thick with red dust.
We crest a steep incline and drop into the active pit. Floodlights the size of cars illuminate the terraced walls. Ahead of us, a massive haul truck—its tires twice my height—groans under the weight of crushed copper ore.
I don’t brake. I lean into the turn and shoot the gap between the truck’s massive rear axle and the sheer rock wall. The vibration of the machinery rattles my teeth, and the thick cloud of red dust the truck kicks up swallows us whole.
It’s the perfect smokescreen.
I weave the bike through a maze of conveyor belts and corrugated steel processing buildings, taking every blind turn I can to break their line of sight. But the wail of the sirens is still bleeding through the industrial roar of the mine.
They can’t see me, but they can hear me. The Harleys’ straight pipes are a beacon. Every cop in the county is going to follow that sound until we hit a dead end.
If they think it’s worth it.
I grit my teeth, the exhaustion settling deep into my bones. My left arm is aching, the gunshot wound a throbbing, white-hot anchor dragging me down. I’m running on pure, burning adrenaline, and I just have to hope I don’t hit my fucking limit.
I spot a row of abandoned, rusted-out shipping containers and an old equipment shed at the edge of a secondary quarry.
I kill the engine and let our momentum carry us into the shadows between two of the containers. The sudden silence hits my ears like physical pressure.
I kick the stand down. “Off,” I wheeze, my chest heaving.
Rue scrambles off the seat, her eyes wide, coated in a fine layer of red dust. “Why are we stopping? They’re right behind us!”
“The bike’s too loud,” I say, unstrapping the duffel bag from the rear fender. I throw it over my good shoulder. “And the cops have radios. They’ll lock down every exit road out of this pit in five minutes. We need a ghost.”
I look down at the Knucklehead. The chrome is caked in mud, the engine ticking as it cools. It kept us alive. It got us here. I liked it. But it’s a dead weight now.
I’d burn the whole world down if it meant keeping Rue out of a cell.
I grab her hand, intertwining my fingers with hers. “Come on.”
We run. My boots feel like they’re filled with lead, but I pull her along, staying in the deep shadows of the heavy machinery. We make it to a gravel lot near one of the supervisor's offices. The morning shift is just starting.
A dozen dirty, white fleet trucks—standard Ford F-150s with a magnetic mining logo slapped on the doors—are parked in a crooked line.
Perfect.
I start jerking the doors of them, making my way down the row. Finally, I try the fourth. The handle gives with a click.
“Get in,” I tell Rue, gently pushing her toward the passenger side.
I slide behind the wheel. The keys aren’t in the ignition, but this is an active job site. Nobody takes the keys home.
I pop the center console. Nothing.
I drop the sun visor.
A set of silver keys falls into my lap.
I jam them into the ignition and turn. The V8 engine hums to life, quiet and smooth. I throw it into drive and pull out of the lot, merging seamlessly into a line of four other white fleet trucks heading toward the southern exit gate.
“Keep your head down,” I bark at Rue.
She slides down in the seat, pulling her knees to her chest.
We reach the access road. A quarter mile ahead, two Highway Patrol cruisers come screaming toward us, lights flashing, sirens tearing through the morning air.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force my foot to keep a steady, agonizingly slow pressure on the gas pedal. I keep my eyes forward, mimicking the bored, tired posture of the miners in the trucks ahead of me.
The cruisers blow past us in the opposite lane, a gust of wind shaking the truck. They don’t even tap their brakes. They’re looking for a guy on a loud motorcycle, not a dirty work truck blending into the morning commute.
We pass through the exit gate and hit the two-lane blacktop heading south.
As the mine shrinks in the rearview mirror, the adrenaline finally breaks, and I let out a heavy sigh.
“Holy fucking shit,” I mutter, turning to Rue. “Holy shit.”
A wave of exhaustion so heavy it blurs my vision crashes over me. My grip on the steering wheel goes slack, and I have to shake my head just to keep the road in focus. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder.
Rue sits up slowly, looking at me, her eyes widening. “We made it.”
“Yeah, we did.” I nod, but my jaw feels tight.
We’re still not safe, and my head spinning might very well be the reason for that. The truck drifts toward the center, and I jerk it back between the lanes.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Noah,” Rue says, her voice laced with panic. “Pull over. You’re going to fucking crash us!”
I glance down. Dark, wet blood is soaking through my shirt, staining the gray fabric of the seatbelt.
Oh shit. How much blood have I lost?
I look up at the road ahead. We’re passing through a desolate, forgotten stretch of highway on the edge of a dying town. A flickering, buzzing red neon sign cuts through the early morning gloom.
Motel. Vacancy.
It looks like a place where people go to disappear.
“I’m pulling over,” I rasp, my voice barely recognizable, my head spinning faster with every passing second.
I veer off the highway, the tires crunching over cracked asphalt and overgrown weeds. I don’t park in the front. I steer the truck around the side of the decaying building, hiding it behind a rusted dumpster and a row of dead oleander bushes.
I cut the engine and try to gather my wits.
“I think you’re dehydrated or something,” Rue squeaks out in a whisper.
I look over at her. She’s staring at me, her face pale beneath the dirt, her eyes filled with a terrifying mix of devotion and fear. I brought her into this hell, and right now, I don’t even have the strength to carry the bag inside.
She searches my face and then unclicks her seatbelt.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Just sit tight. I’ll get us a room.”
“Remember to lie, Rue. Tell them it’s just you. Whatever the fuck it takes.”
She nods, planting a kiss on my cheek. “I will.”
And with that, she slips out of the truck.