Chapter 3 - Ranger #2
She almost smiles at that. Almost. "Is that what you tell yourself when you're scared?"
"I don't get scared," I say, then catch myself. "That's a lie. I get scared. I just don't let it stop me from doing what needs to be done."
"What scares you?" she asks.
Failing people who trust me to protect them.
Watching good men die for causes that don't matter.
The sound my father's belt made right before it hit skin.
The look in Quinn's eyes the night I broke my hand saving her.
The possibility that I'll become the kind of man who hurts people for reasons other than protection.
"Lots of things," I say instead. "But nothing we need to worry about right now."
A flash of movement in the rearview mirror makes every muscle in my body tense. Two motorcycles. Maybe three hundred yards back. Taking the same turn we just took onto this county road.
Could be coincidence. Could be random bikers heading the same direction.
Could be Vale's backup.
I don't believe in coincidences.
"Delilah," I say, my voice calm but firm. "I need you to listen carefully and do exactly what I tell you. Can you do that?"
She goes rigid in her seat, picking up on the shift in my tone immediately. "Yes."
"There are motorcycles behind us. Could be nothing. Could be something. Either way, I need you to get down. Slide down in your seat as low as you can go. Stay below the window line."
"Oh god—"
"Now, Delilah."
She moves, unbuckling her seatbelt and sliding down until she's curled against the footwell, making herself as small as possible. Good. Smart.
In the back seat, Vale is grinning. I can see it in the rearview mirror. The smug satisfaction of someone who knows backup is coming.
"Told you," he says. "Demon doesn't give up."
I ignore him and focus on the bikes. They're gaining. Riding fast. Riding aggressive. Definitely not a coincidence.
My mind shifts into tactical mode, processing options with the speed that comes from years of training.
We're on a two-lane country road with fields on either side.
No cover. No places to pull off and make a stand without being completely exposed.
The sedan is faster than the bikes in a straight line, but motorcycles are more maneuverable.
They can split lanes, take shortcuts, go places a car can't.
Running won't work forever.
Fighting while protecting a civilian in an enclosed space is a tactical nightmare.
But letting them catch us is suicide.
I accelerate. The sedan responds smoothly, engine opening up as we hit sixty, then seventy. The bikes accelerate too, keeping pace. They're not trying to catch us yet, just keeping us in sight, probably waiting for reinforcements or a better location to force us off the road.
My phone buzzes again. This time I risk a glance.
**Phoenix:** *Brick reports activity on police scanner. Officers responding to incident at Sunset Inn. You clear?*
I can't text back while driving this fast with pursuit behind us, so I dictate to my phone's voice command: "Contact Phoenix."
It rings twice.
"Talk to me," Phoenix says immediately.
"We have pursuit," I say. "Two bikes, maybe more. They picked us up about five miles past Route 17. Demon's people."
"Can you lose them?"
"Not on these roads. Too open. They'll just follow until they get a better position."
I hear Phoenix swearing under his breath, then: "What do you need?"
"Time and distance. I'm going to push east, try to make it to the industrial park off Miller Road. Lots of warehouses, lots of cover. Better place to make a stand if it comes to that."
"That's ten to fifteen minutes from your current position."
"I know."
"Can the sedan handle it?"
"Diesel keeps them running clean. Yeah, it can handle it."
"What about the package?"
I glance down at Delilah, still curled in the footwell, her eyes wide and scared but focused on me. Listening. Trusting.
"She's holding together," I say. "Tougher than she looks."
"Good. I'm sending backup. Judge and Brick are already mounting up. Canvas and Saint right behind them. They'll intercept from the north, cut off pursuit before they can box you in."
"Copy. ETA?"
"Twelve minutes if they push it."
Twelve minutes. I need to stay ahead of these bikes for twelve minutes while keeping Delilah safe and Vale contained. The math is tight but doable.
"I'll make it work," I say.
"You better, brother. From ash, we rise!"
“From ash, we rise!” I repeat.
The call ends.
Behind us, the two bikes have been joined by a third. Three total now, riding in formation, keeping exactly three hundred yards back. Professional. Organized. Waiting for their moment. I push the sedan to eighty. The bikes match speed effortlessly.
"Graham?" Delilah's voice is small from the footwell.
"Still here."
"Are we going to die?"
"No," I tell her. And mean it. "Backup is twelve minutes out. All I have to do is keep us ahead of them until then. I've done harder things."
"Like what?"
"Like extracting three civilians from a compound with fifteen hostiles between us and the extraction point. Like driving a supply convoy through an active minefield."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob. Hard to tell.
"You're really good at this, aren't you?" she says. "The tactical stuff."
"It's what I do. What I've always done. See the threats before they arrive. Plan three moves ahead. Keep people alive."
"Have you ever failed?"
I hate that question.
"Yes," I admit. "Once. Afghanistan. Lost a friend because I didn't see the IED in time. Stepped right past it. He didn't."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too. But I learned from it. Made sure it never happened again. That's all you can do. Learn, adapt, survive."
The bikes are closing the gap. Down to two hundred yards now. They're testing my response time, seeing how I react to pressure. I don't react. Just maintain speed and watch them in the mirror.
Vale is laughing again in the back seat. "This is where it ends, military boy. Even odds don't favor you when my brothers are this motivated."
"Your brothers are idiots," I say. "They're following a pattern. Staying exactly two hundred yards back. Riding in formation. Probably communicating via headset. Which means they're predictable. And predictable people die."
I see the turnoff for Miller Road ahead. Two miles. Maybe ninety seconds at this speed. The bikes see it too. They accelerate. Trying to close the distance before I can make the turn, probably planning to force me past it or cut me off if I try.
Not happening.
I wait until the last possible second, until they're committed to their acceleration, until they think they know what I'm going to do, and then I hit the brakes.
Not gently. Full pressure. The sedan's anti-lock brakes engage with a stuttering pulse as we decelerate from eighty to forty in under three seconds. Delilah yelps from the footwell. Vale slams forward against his seatbelt.
The bikes shoot past us, their riders' heads turning in surprise as they realize I'm no longer in front of them.
I crank the wheel hard right and take the Miller Road turnoff at forty-five, the sedan's tires screaming but holding. The bikes are already braking, trying to turn around, but they've got momentum and anger working against them.
Gives me maybe twenty seconds of lead time.
I'll take it.
"You can sit up now," I tell Delilah. "But stay buckled."
She climbs back into the seat, fumbling with her seatbelt, her face pale but determined. "That was—"
"Reckless," I finish. "But effective."
"I was going to say terrifying."
"That too."