Chapter 5
Milepost watched from the motel window, tracking the slow crawl of Oklahoma plates along the highway a quarter mile out. Rifle rack in the back window. Two men in the cab. Moving like they had all the time in the world.
They were hunting. And they were getting closer.
He pulled his phone and hit Striker's number. The Warlord answered on the first ring.
"Talk to me."
"Got a Pace truck running laps on the highway. Black Dodge, Oklahoma tags, rifle rack. Third pass in twenty minutes."
"Hold on." Keyboard clicking in the background—Striker running plates, pulling intel. "That matches a vehicle spotted at a gas station three miles east of your position. Denny Pace has five men staged there, rotating surveillance in pairs."
Denny. The one who'd broken Nina's hand. The one who'd been hunting her since she'd told him to go to hell.
"How long have they been there?"
"Since this morning. They're being patient, which means they're confident." Striker's voice hardened. "These aren't random thugs, brother. They're running an actual operation."
"Can you get me backup?"
"Ridge is thirty minutes out. I can be there in forty-five. You need us to move now?"
Milepost calculated. Three miles to the gas station, five men rotating, the truck doing laps. They weren't ready to hit the motel yet—still mapping approaches, counting exits, figuring out the terrain.
He had time. Not much, but enough.
"Hold position for now. I'll call if it escalates."
"Copy. Stay sharp."
He ended the call and turned to find Nina standing in the bathroom doorway, watching him with those dark eyes that missed nothing.
"They found us," she said. Not a question.
"They found the highway. They're still looking for the motel."
"But they will find it."
"Eventually." He crossed to her, stopping close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. "That truck out there—can you see the passenger?"
Nina moved to the window, staying low, peering through the gap in the curtains. The truck was making another pass, slower this time.
Her whole body went rigid.
"That's him," she said. "The one who poured the gasoline. I saw his face in the parking lot lights when I was running."
Something cold and sharp settled in Milepost's chest. The man who'd tried to burn her alive was circling half a mile away, patient as a vulture.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." Her voice was steady, but her hands had curled into fists. "Skinny guy, dark hair, tattoo on his neck. He was laughing when he lit the match."
Laughing. While her car burned and she ran for her life.
Milepost filed that away for later. For when he had Denny Pace alone and could return the favor.
"Stay away from the windows," he said. "I need to set up some insurance."
"What kind of insurance?"
"The loud kind."
He found what he needed in the motel's dumpster—empty cans, loose gravel, a length of wire from an abandoned fence post. Crude materials for a crude purpose, but effective.
The Mother Road Motel backed up against open desert, nothing but scrub and sand for half a mile before you hit the next road. If the Pace crew came at night, they'd come from the back—quieter, less visible, harder to spot.
Unless someone gave them away.
Milepost strung the wire ankle-high across the approach, threading cans filled with gravel at six-foot intervals. Anyone who tripped it would make enough noise to wake the dead.
It wasn't elegant. But it would work.
Nina appeared at his shoulder as he finished the last connection. She'd ignored his order to stay inside, because of course she had.
"Tin cans and gravel?"
"Early warning system." He stood, dusting off his hands. "They hit the wire, we hear it. Gives us thirty seconds to react."
"And then what?"
"Then I handle it."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm not going to hide in the bathroom while you fight off an army."
"It's not an army. It's five guys and a truck."
"Five guys with rifles who already tried to kill me once."
Milepost turned to face her fully. She stood in the fading afternoon light with her chin raised and her broken hand held close to her chest, looking like a woman who'd fight a hurricane if it got in her way.
Something fierce moved through him. Pride, maybe. Or something deeper.
"You're not hiding," he said. "You're staying alive. There's a difference."
"There's no difference if you're the only one fighting."
"I won't be alone. Ridge is thirty minutes out, Striker's forty-five. If things go sideways, I've got backup."
"And if things go sideways before backup gets here?"
He held her gaze. "Then I do what I have to do."
"Which is?"
"Whatever it takes to keep you breathing."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Nina's expression shifted—something vulnerable flickering beneath the steel.
"You don't even know me," she said quietly. "Three days ago I was just a singer who played your truck stops. Now you're ready to die for me?"
"I'm not ready to die." Milepost stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of her body. "I'm ready to kill. There's a difference."
Her breath caught.
"They broke your hand because you wouldn't give them what they wanted.
They burned your car because you didn't run scared.
They're circling this motel because you're still fighting instead of crawling back to beg forgiveness.
" His voice dropped, rough and certain. "That makes you mine to protect.
Not because you're weak—because you're not. "
"Yours," she repeated.
"Yeah." He reached out and touched her jaw, tilting her face up. "Mine."
The kiss came before he made the decision.
Her mouth was warm and fierce, her good hand fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
She tasted like road dust and fear and something sweeter underneath—something that made him want to forget about the trucks and the guns and the men who were coming to kill her.
He pulled back before he could lose himself completely.
"Case your guitar," he said, his voice rougher than it should be. "If we have to run, that's what you grab. Nothing else."
"What about you?"
"I'm not running." He pressed one more kiss to her forehead, hard and quick. "I'm done running a long time ago."
His phone buzzed. Striker's name on the screen.
"Go ahead."
"Situation's escalating. Denny just called in a second truck from across the state line. You've got maybe two hours before they've got enough men to hit you hard."
Two hours. That changed things.
"Get Ridge moving now. I want him here before dark."
"Already done. You need anything else?"
Milepost looked at Nina—at the determination in her eyes, the way she stood like a woman ready to face whatever came next.
"Just get here," he said. "We're going to have company tonight."
He ended the call and pocketed the phone. The sun was starting its long slide toward the horizon, painting the desert in shades of gold and red.
Two hours until the second truck arrived. Three until full dark. And somewhere out there, Denny Pace was gathering his men for an assault on a motel that was supposed to be unfindable.
They'd found it anyway.
"What happens now?" Nina asked.
"Now we get ready." He moved back toward the room, pulling her with him. "You know how to use a gun?"
"My mama taught me to shoot before she taught me to drive."
"Good." He handed her the backup piece from his ankle holster—a compact .380 that wouldn't strain her injured hand. "Safety's on the left. You point it at anyone who isn't me or wearing a Route 66 patch. You understand?"
She took the gun, checked the chamber, clicked off the safety and back on. Smooth, practiced.
His woman kept surprising him.
His woman. When had he started thinking of her that way?
"I understand," she said. "What about the guitar?"
"Case it. Put it by the bathroom window—same exit you used last time." He met her eyes. "If I tell you to run, you grab it and you go. Don't look back, don't wait for me, just run."
"And leave you here alone?"
"I won't be alone. Ridge and Striker are coming."
"That's not what I asked."
He cupped her face in his hands, rough palms against soft skin, and held her gaze with everything he had.
"You run because I can't fight and worry about you at the same time. You run because the guitar matters and I need to know it's safe. You run because—" His voice cracked, just slightly. "Because I'm not losing you. Not to Denny Pace. Not to anyone."
Nina's eyes glistened. But she nodded.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll run."
"Good." He released her face and stepped back, the warrior replacing the man who'd just kissed her. "Now help me move the furniture. We're going to make them work for every inch of this room."
They spent the next hour turning the motel room into a killbox—bed flipped for cover, chair wedged under the door, lamp positioned to blind anyone who came through the window.
Nina worked beside him without complaint, hauling furniture with her good hand and never once asking if they could just leave.
She understood. Running wasn't an option anymore.
The only way out was through.
By the time Ridge's bike rumbled into the parking lot, the sun was touching the horizon and the black truck had made twelve more passes.
The Pace family was coming.
Milepost was ready to meet them.