Chapter 68
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Zac
The road of cracked tarmac stretches ahead. We walk fast, boots stomping in sync towards the truck depot. Jordan’s eyes keep sliding towards me, and eventually I meet his gaze with a glare.
“What?” I snap.
His eyes slide to the jacket I’d hastily pulled on. “Nice jacket,” he mutters.
I smirk, utterly unamused, but reach for it, tugging the blue collar up. “What? You think I was gonna risk losing my own jacket?”
Jordan’s gaze trails over the preppy jacket, taking in the white stripes and sleeves, the gold zipper, and the bright blue crest. “Where did you get that?”
“Emilia’s wardrobe,” I say, voice clipped. “Think it belongs to that Raymond prick.”
His brow lifts, amused. “Rayden?”
“Sure,” I mutter, shrugging. “Either way, she doesn’t need his fucking clothes anymore.”
That earns me a smirk. “Right,” he says. “Because she needs yours?”
“Fuck off, Jordan,” I snap.
He just turns his attention back to the street, shaking his head. “You’re still in denial? After all of this?”
A flicker of something coils low in my stomach, but I quickly shove it down. He’s overthinking, just like he always does. Just because he and Claudia fell in love like Romeo and Juliet, he thinks the rest of us will, too.
“After what?” I mutter. “She needs help. We’re helping her.
The same way I would Claudia, or Kieran, or Bridget, or Anna—” I list the names like she isn’t different.
Like she’s exactly the same as the rest of them, but with each one, my chest tightens further, more and more painful until I stop, jaw tensing as I grit my teeth.
Jordan nods, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he doesn’t buy it for a second.
We keep moving, rock and gravel crunching underfoot. Up ahead, the outline of the truck depot gate appears, tall and wrapped in barbed wire. The stone walls on either side are topped with broken glass.
My vision clears. There’s no room for fear. Only focus.
I come to a stop as I spot the three Enforcers patrolling just inside the gates.
There’s an old bus stop beside us, the shelter half collapsed, glass still shimmering on the floor.
“Wait here,” I tell Jordan, jerking my chin at the shelter. “Stay out of sight, but be ready; there’s no telling how long we’ll have to get out of here.”
Or if we will at all.
Jordan’s eyes dart from the depot to the bus station, and despite the concern in his expression, he nods. “Yeah. Fine. Just… be careful.”
A bitter smirk pulls across my face. “I’m well past that.”
His frown deepens. “Zac—”
I’m gone. Striding down the street, ignoring the way my stomach twists as I head for the gate. My stride is steady, strong and sure. My steps don’t falter, even as the depot approaches. I am just a man walking to work. A man walking to work…
A short figure appears behind the gate. Yolanda holds her clipboard of assignments, and the usual cigarette hangs from the corner of her mouth. She nods at me and tugs the gate open.
I step through, and without even a word of greeting, cross the courtyard to the Hut. It’s bigger than the name suggests, a building of offices and corridors.
The low buzz of voices leaks from the depot manager’s office, but I ignore them, heading directly for the room at the far end, heart hammering beneath my ribs. Hooks line the white, sterile room, and I peel off Rayden’s jacket before hanging it on the hook below the label Hastings.
The offensive blue item takes its place as planned. I turned up to work. I came into the Hut, hung up my jacket like any other day. Got on with my work like Emilia hasn’t been taken, because as far as they’re concerned, I don’t know she has.
Next to the jacket, my grey, oil-stained overalls hang from their own hook. I grab them, tugging them over my clothes. The scent of grease and petrol saturates my senses as I push my arms through the sleeves and pull up the zipper.
My breath is shaky as I exhale and run a hand through my hair.
Come on, Zac. Keep it the fuck together.
I rest my arm against the cold wall, my eyes zeroing in on the label.
Hastings.
Zac Hastings.
Gia Hastings.
Emilia… Hastings.
A snarl curls my lips, and I tear away from the name tag, striding back through the room, down the corridor and past the dull laughter spilling from underneath the depot manager’s door.
The Assignment Room is brighter than the rest of the building. The white tube lights hum overhead, a constant buzz that always sets my teeth on edge. Today, I hardly notice them.
Freddie is sat behind the counter, as small as possible. He looks up when I step in, black glasses slipping down his nose. His brow creases, eyes flickering over my face and I realise with a start that my scuffle with Riley and Jordan has probably left a mark. Shit.
“Hastings,” he says before dragging his gaze back to the papers in front of him. In seconds, he hands over a sheet of paper and a set of keys. “No changes to your schedule. York and back. Shipment of tyres.”
I nod, staring at the page without actually seeing the words. The printed ink is just a scrawl of bullshit, and no matter how many times I blink, it doesn’t clear.
“Thanks,” I mutter. My hand tightens around the keys, and I turn to the door to the garage, grabbing the handle and yanking the door open.
“Hastings!”
The voice cracks through the room behind me. Slowly, I turn.
Yolanda stands in the doorway, her glare fierce enough to make my stomach drop out my ass. For a moment—one utterly stifling moment—fear flares in my chest, cold as ice and sharp as a knife.
I’m too late. They’re here to take me in, to stop me before I can rescue her—
Yolanda hesitates, her gaze drifting over me for one, two, three seconds before a smirk quirks her lips.
Almost immediately, my chest loosens. Of course.
There’s nothing suspicious about the state of my face.
She’s too busy relishing whatever hell she thinks I’ve endured at the hands of the Enforcers.
She jabs a finger at Freddie. “Greyson isn’t back yet,” she says, her eyes on me.
I lift my chin, keeping my expression clear.
“You’re our second fastest driver. We need you to take his delivery instead.
” She slams a hand on the counter, and Freddie squeals, jumping in his seat.
“Give him Greyson’s second route,” she snaps.
“Yes. Yes, right, one moment.” Freddie fumbles through the desk.
My breath thuds in my ears as I re-approach the counter, ditching the keys and information I’d been given. They clatter onto the surface.
Freddie finally finds what he’s looking for, thrusting the new keys and paper at me, hands shaking. I take them.
Yolanda nods. “It’s a shipment of ammo. Needs delivering to Killmoor.”
My lungs seize for a second, throat thickening and breath sticking, before I swallow, forcing the lump down.
There’s nothing to panic about. I’m not actually going to Killmoor.
A sharp sting pricks my palm as I turn, squeezing the new keys even tighter, the metal breaking skin, but I stride into the garage like I’m still the person I was five hours ago.
The garage smells like it always does: petrol and metal and rubber.
The great line of trucks loom under the harsh lights as mechanics wordlessly move around them in black overalls, tools and tyres in hand.
Sparks scatter from somewhere in the far corner.
I swallow, glancing down at the number etched on the keyring.
No. Surely not.
I look up, luck and utter disbelief spilling through my veins. It’s one of the big ones. Heavy-duty, built for the longer haul trips with reinforced paneling along the sides. It’s rare I’m ever sent out in this one.
It’s like the universe is on my side.
I fight to hold back a smirk as I stare at the truck that the State uses to counter any weather, any rough terrain, any damn obstacle they think they’ll face.
For a trip to Killmoor… I suppose it makes sense. It could probably withstand war.
The outside is still wet from a recent wash, the tyres thick with tread. The cab sits higher than most of the Enforcer’s own vehicles.
My heart jolts, adrenaline surging at a fiery pace.
Keep moving.
I approach the truck and climb the steps to haul the door open. It groans so loudly that I wince.
I’m supposed to be here.
No one flinches. No one looks.
Get in.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I slam the door closed, throwing the paperwork into the passenger footwell, and I jam the key into the ignition. The engine rumbles to life, louder and deeper than yesterday’s truck. My palms are slick as they curl around the wheel.
Come on. Just drive.
I peel out of the space as efficiently as I can without risking hitting the trucks beside me as panic tugs at my stomach. The clock on the dashboard reads six minutes past three; Emilia will have been taken from City Hall by now.
Everything has to run smoothly, or I won’t make it to her in time.
My breath is unsteady, practically wheezy as I stop at the end of the garage. One of the workers stands by the shutter doors, eyes on his clipboard, pen scratching against it.
Emilia’s face flashes through my mind, all panicked eyes and bloody wounds. I grip the wheel tightly, jaw clenching.
Slowly, as though my wife’s life isn’t on the line, his head lifts.
His gaze pans over the vehicle—and me—before he jots something down on the page.
My heart pounds against my ribcage so hard it hurts, eyes boring into the prick who quite literally doesn’t give a shit about his job, but today… I need him too.
He nods before hitting the button. The garage doors roll up, rattling inch by inch.
Before it’s fully open, the truck crawls forward, tyres rolling onto the gravel outside.
I guide it across the forecourt, stopping just shy of the main gate.
The metal bars seem thicker than usual, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I wait to pass the final hurdle.
Emilia’s face flashes through my mind once more. Only this time, it’s the look in her eyes this morning, the worry and the panic as I’d assured her—promised her—she was safe.
Exactly like I did with Gia.
Tears had spilled from her brown eyes as I’d clutched at her cheeks and shook my head.
I’d leaned in closer as we stood outside Grafton House, and said, “They have no way of knowing it was you in the fields, Gia.” Her lip had quivered at my words.
“All they have, at most, is a girl with brown hair. They can’t tie it to you,” I murmured. “Everything is going to be okay.”
When she responded, her voice was laced with panic. “Are you sure?”
I’d nodded, wiping away the tears, and sent her strolling into Grafton House without another word. Without a goodbye. Without panicking.
I should’ve panicked.
The realisation slams into my sternum and all the breath leaves my body, my grip on the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles turn white.
Because the truth is… I don’t keep people safe. I never have.
Not when it matters.
I think I’m doing good for the world, think I’m in control, walk with my head held fucking high, but whenever push comes to shove and shit gets real, I’m too weak, too slow, to stop any of it.
Nausea coils low in my stomach, spreading like a virus. Beyond the windscreen, my vision blurs, but I force my hands to stay on the wheel. Because even if I’m useless, I have to try now.
I can’t fall apart. Can’t lose sight of Emilia.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and fix my gaze on the security booth as Yolanda steps out.
As usual, she’s frowning as she looks up at the truck, then to me, eyes sweeping for anything out of the ordinary, anything they can use to punish me. Eventually, she nods, but continues to stare, studying me for longer than necessary. I keep my expression impassive, completely clear of emotion.
She finally turns, walking towards the gate’s latch. My heartbeat thunders against my ribs.
Almost…
A flicker in the wing mirror grabs my attention. My eyes drop, and everything inside me goes cold at the sight of a group of Enforcers pouring out of the Hut.
One of them lifts an arm and points. Directly at my truck.
My breath surges through my lips in one ragged burst. Panic slams into my ribs so hard my vision tilts.
Move.
Move now.
I shove the truck into gear, hands slipping on the stick. Yolanda tugs the gate open.
“Come on,” I whisper, foot hovering over the clutch, practically shaking.
The gap widens by a couple of feet, and it’s enough.
Slowly, so as to not draw attention, I lift the clutch and move my foot to the accelerator. The truck lurches forward and the engine rumbles.
Without glancing in my mirror again, the trucks pulls out of the depot before they can reach me, reach the truck, reach Yolanda.
The tyres hit the road, and my foot slams against the pedal, the truck growling and surging forward. At the end of the road, the old bus stop appears, and I slam on the brakes, tyres screeching before rattling to a stop.
Jordan appears in a flash, sprinting across the street. He grabs the door handle, yanks it open, and hauls himself up the steps. I’m driving again before he even gets the door shut.
He drops into the passenger seat, breathless. “Any problems?”
“Piece of cake,” I say, voice steady, hiding the fact that my heart is still trying to beat its way out of my fucking chest.
Jordan huffs a breath that might be a laugh, leaning back and looking over my overalls. “I hope Rayden doesn’t ask Emilia for his jacket back.”
A smirk curls onto my face before I can stop it. “I hope he does.”
Jordan snorts just as I turn onto the main road, towards the outskirts of Nottingham and beyond.