Chapter 29 Ghost
GHOST
The safe house sits thirty miles outside Bakersfield, hidden at the end of a dirt road that doesn’t appear on any map.
I’ve been checking the rearview mirror for the past hour. Nothing but empty highway and darkness. No headlights following. No bikes in the distance.
We’re clear.
Bonnie hasn’t spoken since we left the compound. Just stares out the window, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold everything together.
I want to reach over and take her hand. Tell her it’ll be okay. But I don’t know if that’s true.
The turnoff is barely visible—just two ruts in the desert leading into nowhere. I take it slow, headlights bouncing off scrub brush and rocks.
The safe house appears after a mile. Single story. Adobe walls. Reinforced steel door. Solar panels on the flat roof catching moonlight.
Ash and I stocked this place six months ago. Canned goods, water, weapons. Everything we’d need to disappear if things went south.
Now they have.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, listening. Nothing but wind and the distant yip of coyotes.
“Stay here,” I tell Bonnie.
I get out and do a perimeter check. Windows intact. Door still locked. No tire tracks except the ones we just made. Nobody’s been here since we left it.
Good.
I unlock the door and clear each room. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living area. Weapons cache under the floorboards in the main bedroom. Generator in the shed out back.
Secure.
I go back to the truck. Bonnie’s still sitting in the passenger seat, staring at nothing.
“Clear,” I say. “Let’s get you inside.”
She moves slowly, like everything hurts. I grab both our bags and follow her in.
The safe house smells like dust and stale air. I flip the breaker, and the lights flicker on. The generator hums to life outside.
Bonnie drops onto the worn couch and pulls her knees to her chest. “How long do we have to stay here?”
“As long as it takes.”
She wraps her arms tighter around herself. Small. Vulnerable. Nothing like the fierce woman who wanted to stay and fight.
I should go to her. Hold her. Tell her we’ll get through this.
But I don’t know how.
I pull out my phone. One bar of signal. Then none. Then one again.
Fuck.
The cell service out here is shit—spotty at best, nonexistent most of the time. We’re cut off from the compound. From Ash and Titan. From everything.
I have no idea if they’re under attack. If they’re safe. If Marcus has already made his move.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I’m going to check the supplies,” I say.
Bonnie nods but doesn’t look at me.
I leave her on the couch and head to the kitchen. Canned soup, beans, pasta. Bottled water. Everything still sealed and fresh.
The bedroom closet has blankets, first aid supplies, and toiletries. The weapons cache holds two rifles, three handguns, and enough ammunition to hold off for a day or two nonstop.
We’re set. We can last weeks here if we need to.
I just hope we don’t need to.
When I return to the living room, Bonnie’s lying on the couch with her eyes closed, but she’s not asleep.
“You should get some rest,” I say. “Take the bedroom. I’ll keep watch out here.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Bonnie—”
“I said I’m fine.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Just leave me alone for a bit. Please.”
I want to argue, but she needs space and time to process. I need to let her have it.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
She closes her eyes again.
I settle into the chair by the window and watch the desert stretch out under the stars. This should be good. Time alone with Bonnie. No Ash hovering. No Titan making crude jokes. Just us and the baby.
But the mood is wrong. The tension is too thick. Fear hangs in the air like smoke.
And all I can think about is what might be happening fifty miles away.
The first day passes in silence.
Bonnie stays on the couch most of the time. I make her eat crackers and drink water. She picks at the food but doesn’t protest.
I try calling Ash. No signal.
Try again an hour later. Nothing.
The isolation is worse than I expected. Not knowing what’s happening. Not being able to help. I pace the safe house like a caged animal. Check the perimeter three times. Clean the guns even though they’re already clean.
Bonnie watches me from the couch. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry.”
“Sit down. You’re wearing a hole in the floor.”
I sit. But my leg bounces. Can’t help it.
She reaches over and puts her hand on my knee. “They’re fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you. So stop assuming the worst.”
She’s right. But it doesn’t help.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Listening to Bonnie breathe in the other room. Wondering if Ash and Titan are still alive.
Day two, Bonnie starts throwing up.
I wake to the sound of retching from the bathroom. Rush in to find her on her knees in front of the toilet, pale and shaking.
“I’m fine,” she says before I can ask.
“You’re not fine.”
“It’s just morning sickness.”
“At two in the afternoon?”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Pregnancy doesn’t follow a schedule.”
I help her to her feet. She’s lighter than she should be. Shakier.
“You need to eat.”
“I can’t. Every time I try, it comes back up.”
I make her toast. Plain, no butter. She manages three bites before running back to the bathroom.
This continues all day. And all night. By morning, she’s so weak she can barely stand.
Day three is worse.
She can’t keep anything down. Not water. Not crackers. Nothing. I watch her lying on the couch, pale as paper, dark circles under her eyes like bruises.
This isn’t normal morning sickness. This is something else.
“You need medicine,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re getting weaker. The baby—”
“I know.” Her voice cracks. “But what am I supposed to do? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
She’s right. We’re thirty miles from the nearest town. No pharmacy. No doctor. Nothing but desert and abandoned buildings.
But she needs help. And the baby needs her to be strong.
I make the decision. “I’m going into town,” I say.
Her eyes snap open. “No.”
“You need anti-nausea medication. Electrolytes. Food that’ll actually stay down.” I grab my keys from the table. “I’ll be back in two hours. Maybe less.”
“Ghost, don’t—”
“I have to.” I crouch beside the couch and take her hand. It’s cold. Too cold. “You’re getting worse. I can’t just sit here and watch you waste away.”
Tears fill her eyes. “What if something happens while you’re gone?”
“Nothing will happen. This place is hidden. Nobody knows we’re here.” I pull my gun from my waistband and set it on the table beside her. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me. If someone tries to get in, shoot first.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“I know.” I kiss her forehead. She’s burning up. Fuck. “But I’ll be fast. In and out. You won’t even know I’m gone.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods.
I stand and head for the door. Look back once. She’s watching me with those green eyes full of fear.
“I’ll be back,” I promise.
Then I leave her alone.
The drive to town takes thirty minutes. Every mile feels longer than the last.
I shouldn’t have left her. What if she gets worse? What if she needs me and I’m not there?
But she needs medicine more than she needs me sitting beside her doing nothing.
The town is small with one main street and half the buildings boarded up. A pharmacy sits between a liquor store and a laundromat.
I park and go inside. The pharmacist looks up from behind the counter—old guy, gray beard, suspicious eyes that land on my Ruthless Devils cut.
He doesn’t say anything.
I grab anti-nausea medication. Ginger supplements. Electrolyte powder. Bland crackers and bread that might stay down.
The whole thing takes fifteen minutes.
I load everything into the truck and start the drive back. The road stretches empty ahead of me. Nothing but heat waves and desert.
My phone buzzes. One bar of signal.
I try calling Bonnie. No answer. The call drops before it even rings.
Fuck.
I press harder on the gas.
That’s when I see them in the rearview mirror.
Three bikes. Far back but closing fast.
My jaw tightens.
The Savage Legion cuts are visible even from this distance.
I accelerate. They accelerate. They’re not backing off.
My mind races through options. I have to lead them away from the safe house. Can’t let them follow me back to Bonnie.
I take a side road, and the bikes follow.
The road dead-ends at an abandoned warehouse. Rusted metal siding peels away from the frame. Shattered windows gape like broken teeth. Desert stretches in every direction—nothing but sand and scrub brush for miles.
I kill the engine and step out into the heat. Dust kicks up around my boots as I move to the hood, using it as cover while I pull my Glock and eject the magazine to check the rounds. Fifteen bullets catch the sunlight before I slide the magazine back in with a metallic click.
The rumble of engines grows louder behind me, and I turn to see three bikes crest the rise, chrome flashing in the afternoon sun. They circle once like vultures before cutting their motors in near unison.
Three riders dismount and spread out in a formation, clearly trying to box me in. All three wear Savage Legion patches on their cuts, and all three have guns tucked into their waistbands. The one in the middle is tall and rail-thin, his grin revealing gaps where teeth should be.
“Wrong place, Devils.” He hawks and spits into the dirt between us. “You’re on our turf now.”
“Funny. I don’t see your name anywhere.”
His grin widens, showing more of those missing teeth. “Mouthy fucker. Marcus is gonna pay real good for your head.”
“He’s welcome to try collecting.”
The moment their hands move toward their weapons, everything slows down. I’ve done this a thousand times—on ranges, in combat zones, in situations just like this where hesitation means death. My hand brings the Glock up smooth and steady, muscle memory guiding every movement.
The first shot cracks across the desert. The guy on the left jerks backward as the bullet punches through his chest, and a second round follows before he can even register the hit. Red blooms across his shirt as he goes down hard, his body hitting the ground with a thud that raises a cloud of dust.
I’m already pivoting to the right before the first one falls.
The second target has his gun halfway out when my bullet catches him just above the ear.
The impact snaps his head sideways, and brain matter sprays across the rusted warehouse wall behind him in a wet streak before he crumples to the dirt.
The skinny one in the middle gets his shot off. The bullet screams past my head close enough that I feel the heat of it, smell the sharp bite of cordite in the air.
I adjust my aim and squeeze the trigger.
The round catches him high in the chest, and he stumbles backward, both hands flying to the wound as his gun tumbles from his fingers.
It lands in the dirt with a soft thump, and then he’s on his knees with blood spreading across his shirt in a dark stain that pulses with each frantic beat of his heart.
I move forward with my weapon still raised, checking each body. The first two are motionless with eyes open and glazed. The third one—the skinny bastard with the missing teeth—is still alive, gasping for air that gurgles wetly in his throat.
I stand over him and keep my gun trained on his face. “Who sent you?”
He coughs, and blood sprays from his lips, spattering across his chin and down his neck. “Fuck… you…”
I raise the Glock higher. “Last chance.”
His hand whips out with desperate speed, fingers closing around the pistol he dropped. He swings it up with his arm shaking so violently I can see the tremor from where I stand, and then his finger finds the trigger.
The muzzle flash is bright in the afternoon sun.
Fire explodes in my left side—white-hot and searing like someone drove a molten spike through my ribs. The impact spins me halfway around, and my boots slip in the loose dirt as pain radiates outward from the wound.
My finger jerks the trigger on pure reflex.
The bullet punches through his forehead, and his head snaps back before he collapses face-first into the dust, finally still.
I press my palm to my side, and it comes away slick with blood. The dark red stain spreads across my shirt, warm and sticky against my skin. Too much blood. Too fast.
My knees buckle, and I hit the ground hard enough to jar my teeth. The gun slips from my other hand and lands in the dirt beside me.
Fuck.