Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The town is a twenty-minute walk from the cabin, and Enzo doesn't ask if I want to take the bike or wait for a ride. He just starts walking with that purposeful stride I've come to recognize, and I fall into step beside him with my hands buried in my pockets and my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The morning air is quiet and empty, nothing but trees lining both sides of the gravel path and the rhythmic crunch of our footsteps breaking the silence.
I try not to think about the photo on my phone, but it proves to be impossible.
Miss your happy place?
My stomach turns over and I have to force myself to keep walking.
"You okay?" Enzo's voice comes out low and careful, like he's trying not to spook me.
I don't look at him. "Fine."
"You're breathing like you just ran a mile."
I am. Short gasps that don't quite fill my lungs no matter how hard I try. I force myself to slow down, to inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, counting to four the way my therapist taught me years ago.
"I'm fine."
He hums, but then he steps beside me close enough that I can hear his breathing too. Steady and controlled and completely unaffected, like nothing in this world could rattle him.
Probably nothing can.
The town appears around a bend in the road, smaller than I expected with just a gas station sporting peeling paint, a diner with a faded sign hanging crooked, and a hardware store that looks like it hasn't been open in years.
"I think we should split up," I say, looking between the gas station and the diner. "That way, we can cover more ground. I'll take the diner, you take the gas station."
He looks at me. "No."
"It makes sense. I'm better at getting people to talk without terrifying them and you—" I frown at him. "You look like you want to kill someone at all times. It's not exactly conducive to friendly conversation."
"We're not splitting up."
"Enzo—" I throw my hands up in frustration.
"I'm not leaving you alone, Isabella. That’s not happening."
"If you would stop being a caveman for a second and just listen! It’s a diner full of locals at breakfast time and a gas station right across the street. You'd be able to see the door the entire time." I hold his gaze. "Five minutes. That's all."
He looks at the diner. Then the gas station. Then back at me, and I can see him running the numbers, running them again, not liking the result either time.
Goodness, this man is a piece of work!
"You don't move from inside that diner," he says finally. "You don't step outside for any reason. You see anything that feels wrong, you call me immediately."
"Agreed." I grin.
"I mean it, Isabella." I guess he’s not finding it funny.
Party pooper.
"I know you mean it." I'm already moving toward the diner door.
He grunts. “I'll be right there if you need me or if anything happens.”
I watch him walk toward the gas station with his shoulders tight and his hand drifting toward where his gun is hidden under his jacket, like he's expecting trouble even in this sleepy little town.
He's more on edge than usual, wound tighter somehow, and I wonder if it's because of the photo or because we're out in the open where anyone could be watching.
I turn toward the diner and the bell above the door chimes when I push it open, announcing my arrival to the handful of people inside.
The smell of coffee and bacon grease hits me immediately.
Two old men sit at the counter nursing cups of coffee that look like they've been refilled a dozen times.
A woman in her fifties is wiping down tables with practiced efficiency, her movements automatic after what must be years of the same routine.
She looks up when I walk in and her face breaks into a smile. "Can I help you, honey?"
"I hope so." I return the smile and keep my voice light and friendly, channeling every ounce of charm I can muster.
"I'm staying at a cabin up the road, and someone mentioned seeing a black SUV around here late last night.
I'm trying to figure out if it's someone I know, because a friend I was waiting for didn’t show up. Did you happen to see anything?"
She sets down her rag and thinks for a moment, her eyes going distant for a second. "Black SUV, you said?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Around two in the morning, maybe a little after, an SUV woke me up. I live in the apartment above the diner and the engine was loud enough to rattle my windows." She points east with one weathered hand. "Went toward the motel, two miles that way."
"Thank you. Really, I appreciate it."
She's already looking past me and her smile fades like someone flipped a switch.
I turn to find Enzo standing in the doorway, not moving, just watching with that intensity that makes people nervous.
"I should get back to work." The woman is already walking away, putting distance between herself and whatever danger she senses in him.
I walk outside and Enzo follows, falling into step beside me.
"Gas station attendant saw it too, heading east toward the highway."
"The woman said there's a motel two miles out. Maybe we should check it."
"No."
"We're already here—"
"I said no."
I cross my arms and stop walking, forcing him to turn back to face me. "Why not?"
"Because I don't know what we're walking into, because you're not fucking trained for this, and if something goes wrong—"
His phone buzzes and he pulls it out, reads something that makes his jaw tighten in that way I've learned means he's furious but controlling it.
Then he looks at me and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. "We check the motel. Quick look. Then we're gone."
I don't ask what changed his mind or who texted him. Just start walking.
The motel is exactly what I expected from a place two miles outside a dying town. Single story with paint peeling off in long strips, half the letters in the neon sign burned out so it reads "MO EL" in flickering red.
Three cars sit in the lot and none of them are black SUVs.
"Stay here." Enzo's voice is flat and brooking no argument.
"Enzo—"
"I mean it. Stay outside where I can see you."
He walks into the office and disappears behind a door marked "Manager," leaving me standing in the parking lot feeling exposed and useless.
I wait, counting the seconds in my head, watching the parking lot and the trees beyond and the road for any sign of movement.
Nothing.
Five minutes pass, then ten, and I'm starting to wonder if I should go in after him when the door finally opens.
Enzo walks out with his face carefully blank but his hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles have gone white.
"What did you find out?"
"Someone checked into room seven last night around two in the morning, checked out an hour ago, paid cash."
"Did he say who?"
"Young guy, maybe early thirties, accent but he couldn't place it. That's all he had."
Young guy with an accent. Irish, probably. Which means O'Rourke or his men. They’re really here.
My hands start shaking and I shove them deep in my pockets where he can't see.
"We should go back."
"Yeah."
We walk faster this time, neither of us talking, and I can feel the panic building in my chest like water rising, creeping up my throat until I can barely breathe around it.
They know where I am. They've been watching.
They sent that photo to prove it, to let me know they can get to me whenever they want.
Soon you'll be back.
My breath comes faster and shorter, my vision starting to tunnel.
"Isabella."
Enzo's voice cuts through the panic sharp and commanding.
I look at him.
"Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth, slow and steady. Do it."
I do, once, twice, three times, forcing air into my lungs and pushing it back out until my vision clears and the buzzing in my ears fades.
"Better?"
I nod because I don't trust my voice.
"We're almost there. Just keep walking, keep breathing, stay with me. I will never let anything happen to you."
Soon, the cabin comes into view around the final bend and I can see the bike parked exactly where we left it this morning.
Then I see him.
A man crouched by the bike with his hands moving over something I can't see from this distance, something under the seat.
Enzo's arm shoots out and stops me in my tracks, his hand gripping my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
The man must hear something because he turns, sees us standing there fifty yards away, and runs.
“Got you, bastard!” Enzo is already moving before I can process what's happening, fast and like a predator that's spotted prey, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
I watch him tackle the man from behind and they hit the ground hard enough that I hear the impact from where I'm standing, the sound echoing through the trees like a gunshot.
The man tries to roll but Enzo pins him with a knee planted in his back and a hand on his neck, pressing down.
"Who sent you?"
The man doesn't answer, just struggles against Enzo's weight.
Enzo presses down harder and I can see the man's face turning red. "I asked you a question."
"Fuck you."
Wrong answer.
Enzo's fist comes down and connects with the man's jaw with a sickening crack. Once. Twice. Three times.
Blood sprays across the dirt in an arc.
My feet won't move. I'm standing here watching and I can't make myself move, can't make myself look away, can't do anything but stare.
"E-Enzo!"
My voice sounds far away and disconnected from my body, like someone else is screaming his name.
He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down. His fist comes down again and the man's head snaps to the side. I hear something crack, see blood pouring from his nose in a steady stream.
"Who. Sent. You."
The man spits blood and laughs through broken teeth, a wet gurgling sound. "You're dead. She's dead. All of you—"
Enzo's fist cuts him off and the man's eyes roll back, his body going limp.
Enzo stands and leaves him choking on his own blood, walks to the bike like nothing happened, checks under the seat, pulls something out.