Chapter 18
North
The air in the clubhouse lot is heavy with engine oil and late-summer heat, the kind that makes the asphalt breathe waves.
Sweat beads at my temple before I even lift a damn finger. It slides slow down my jaw, mixing with the smell of gasoline and the faint tang of burnt coffee still in my mouth.
The prospects are loading the crates into the van like it’s their first day on a job site, jerky movements, nervous glances at me, as if I’ll snap their necks if they scuff the paint on one box.
“Handle it like it’s your dick,” Rook barks from behind, lighting a smoke. “Don’t drop it and don’t bang it into shit.”
Soul grins, leaning against his bike, sweat darkening the neckline of his cut. “That explains why the last load was late. Prospect probably had to stop halfway and cry over it.”
I ignore them and run my hand along the straps securing the crates in place. The nylon is coarse under my palm, gritty from dust. I tug hard, I want to feel that bite into my skin, then check each latch.
One of the kids hovers, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “They’re tight, Prez.”
“Check again,” I tell him without looking up, “before I make you drink it all and piss it back out.”
Rook chokes on his smoke, laughing. “Bet he’d enjoy that more than you think.”
Soul strolls over, grinning like he’s been born for trouble. “Kids ready?”
I nod toward the prospects. “They’ll be ready when I say so.”
Soul smirks. “Translation: you’re gonna ride their asses all night.”
“Part of the job,” I say, climbing onto my bike. “Better I break them than Iowa does.”
It takes another twenty minutes before I’m satisfied, van loaded tight, extra fuel strapped down, everyone armed and with comms on. I give the signal, and the row of engines growls to life like a pack of wolves waking up.
We ride out in a staggered formation, the van dead-center, my crew flanking it. Wind whips against my face, the leather of my gloves creaking as I flex my fingers on the grips. The road smells of dry wheat fields and exhaust, sharp and raw in my lungs.
Rook pulls up alongside me for a stretch, his grin splitting his face. “Feel like a field trip, Prez. You pack us juice boxes?”
“Yeah,” I shoot back. “Yours is spiked with antifreeze.”
Soul’s voice crackles over comms, lazy and deep, “Better than that protein powder Rook drinks. Smells like feet and bad chocolate.”
We roll out slow, then hit the open road, the hum deepening into a roar.
The night wraps around us, a cold bite in the wind that makes my jaw ache.
Iowa’s a straight shot, but I keep my eyes cutting left and right, scanning for trouble.
Not our first border run, but this deep into their side?
There’s a reason I brought Rook and Soul, not just muscle, but eyes I trust.
After a few miles, Rook pulls up alongside me and shouts over the wind, “Prez, you sure about this route?”
“You doubting my sense of direction?” I shout back.
“Last time you said that, we ended up in the middle of a goddamn cattle drive,” Soul cuts in from behind, laughter in his voice.
“That was once,” I bark, though the corner of my mouth twitches, “And I smoked Doc’s stuff.” Rock made sure to kick his ass but I never felt so high after a joint.
“And we still talk about it,” Rook fires back.
“Better than that time you tried to charm your way past a checkpoint and almost got us strip searched,” I shoot at him.
“Almost,” Rook says. “Keyword.”
The banter runs like this for miles: sharp, crude, familiar. It’s the kind of talk that keeps the edge off without dulling it completely. We all know what’s under it. The parts no one says out loud.
By the time the GPS pings us close to the meet point, my mood’s a steady mix of focus and suspicion. The warehouse sits like a shadow on the edge of the road, broken windows and rusted siding giving it that hollowed-out feel.
We circle once. I nod to Rook. He peels off to check the back while I take the front, Soul keeping watch near the van.
Everything looks clear.
That’s the problem.
The meet spot is a wide patch of dirt just past the Iowa line, where the road crumbles into gravel and weeds. On paper, it’s perfect, open view, no buildings close enough for a sniper to nest, horizon clear except for a few stubborn oaks. In my gut, it’s wrong.
We do a slow perimeter sweep. Tires crunch on loose stone. The air smells different here, damp, like rain that never came.
Rook calls over comms, “Perimeter clear.”
I’m not convinced.
We roll into position anyway, the van idling center, our bikes circling like dogs on a chain. The other crew’s already here: a handful of patched bastards I don’t recognize, leather stiff, eyes cold. They stand too straight, too still. No one smokes. No one laughs.
That’s the first crack in the picture.
The truck’s already there. Parked too neat. Everything is too still.
Something itches in the back of my skull.
The second comes when I clock their bikes, no road dust, like they haven’t ridden a mile to get here.
Then the wind shifts and I smell it.
Gun oil.
“Down!” I roar, but the first shot’s already tearing through the air and a prospect goes down hard, his head snapping back like a rag doll. Second one hits the other kid in the gut; he folds, screaming.
The echo turns into chaos, gunfire spraying from the dark, the metallic stench of blood flooding the air.
“Cover! Move!” I bellow, diving behind a rusted forklift. Rook’s firing back, Soul’s cursing so loud it almost drowns out the shots.
But there’s too many of them.
Too clean. Too quick.
This isn’t just a hit. It’s a setup.
A cut draped over a mirror in the shadows. Black and red. Iowa crew.
Small, dirty, desperate. And standing just beyond them, like a snake in tall grass, is Myka. He’s got that smug, lazy grin, the one that says he thinks he’s already won.
Chaos detonates.
The air fills with muzzle flashes and the metallic stench of blood. Rook’s yelling, Soul’s barking orders, but it’s swallowed by the thunder of gunfire.
The fight tightens, no room to breathe, no cover worth a damn. Soul goes down to one knee, blood running down his thigh, still firing.
Two of our own are already on the ground, not moving.
We’re losing ground, boxed in.
And then they’re on us. A blow to the back of my skull makes the world lurch.
My knees hit dirt. Rough hands wrench my arms behind me, and I throw my head back, feel the crunch of bone against my skull, one bastard drops, but another slams something sharp into my neck.
My fingers brush the spot and come away with a dart the size of my thumb.
The drug burns hot and instant. My pulse slams against my ribs, my vision doubling.
No.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
I keep firing, keep moving, because if I stop, if I give in, it’s over. But my arms are heavier by the second, my legs like wet sandbags.
Hands grab me. Boots slam into my ribs. My gun skitters across the floor.
I swing, elbow catching someone’s jaw with a satisfying crack but it’s sloppy. Too slow.
Another blow catches me across the temple and I stagger. My breath saws out of me. The drug’s in full swing now, buzzing in my veins, making the edges of the world shimmer.
They haul me upright, half-hanging, half-standing, my shoulders screaming from the strain. My boots barely touch the ground, enough to keep me in constant, grinding pain.
Blood drips down my face, warm trails sliding past my ear. The room sways. My vision tunnels, snapping between shadows and faces.
“Well, well,” Myka drawls, stepping out from behind a truck like he’s walking into a goddamn movie scene. His smirk is all teeth and rot. “The mighty Prez. You fight better than she did… for now.”
I lunge at him, but my body’s already betraying me. My arms jerk, slow, like I’m moving underwater.
He stops in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. “Thing about this serum? The more you fight, the faster it works. Happened to her too. Oh, she fought at first. Until she stopped. Until she started enjoying it.”
I want to rip his throat out with my teeth, but I can’t even lift my head without the chains groaning.
I close my eyes, steadingingy pulse. I can’t fight him right now.
But I will. I’ll tear the skin from his bones.
I’ll make him wish he’d never been born.
The red that floods my vision isn’t the drug.
It’s pure rage. I snarl so hard it tears my throat, every muscle screaming against the poison dragging me down. “Fuck you.”
He laughs low, pats my cheek like I’m some stray dog. “You’ll get there, Prez. And I’ll enjoy watching it happen.”
I glare at him, and my pulse detonates in my ears.
My vision whites out.
Every muscle in my body’s screaming to lunge for him, to bite, to kill but the chains hold. The drug claws at my brain, slowing everything, smearing the edges of rage into something heavier.
But I feel it.
All of it.
The helplessness. The heat in my chest that isn’t fear, it’s the kind of hate that remakes you from the inside out.
I lock my eyes on his and I make a promise without saying a word.
I’m going to kill him.
Not quick. Not clean, and when it’s over, there won’t be enough of him left for the crows to fight over.
The last thing I register before the world tilts is the sound of Soul still fighting somewhere behind me, the thud of fists on flesh, Rook’s voice breaking through the haze.
Then the dirt rushes up to meet me.
And I’m gone.