Chapter 4 - Delilah
Terrifying doesn't even begin to cover it.
My heart is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every part of me that's still processing what just happened. The sudden braking, the sharp turn, the way those motorcycles shot past us like we'd just performed some kind of magic trick.
Except it wasn't magic. It was Graham being exactly what he said he was—tactical, three moves ahead of everyone else.
I fumble with my seatbelt, my hands shaking so badly it takes three tries to get it clicked. The sedan is flying down Miller Road now, buildings starting to appear on either side. Warehouses, mostly. Some look abandoned, some look operational. All of them look industrial and unwelcoming.
Behind us, I can see the motorcycles in the side mirror. They've turned around and they're coming fast, angrier now. More aggressive. The lead rider is leaning forward over his handlebars like he's trying to will his bike to go faster through sheer rage.
"How much longer until your backup arrives?" I ask, proud that my voice only shakes a little.
Graham checks something, a clock on the dashboard, maybe, or doing mental math I can't follow. "Ten minutes. Give or take."
Ten minutes feels like an eternity when men with guns are chasing you.
"What happens if they catch us before then?"
"They won't." He says it with such absolute certainty that I almost believe him. Almost. "But if something goes wrong, if I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back. Don't wait for me. Just run and find the nearest building with people. Witnesses. Safety in numbers."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"Yes, you are," he interrupts, his tone allowing zero argument. "If it comes down to you being safe or me being safe, you win. Every time. That's non-negotiable."
From the back seat, Marcus Vale makes a sound of disgust. "How noble. The soldier playing hero for the fat girl who can't save herself."
The words hit exactly where they're designed to hit: right in the soft vulnerable parts I've spent years building armor around. Fat girl. Like that's all I am. Like my body defines my worth, my capability, my right to be protected.
I've heard worse. Been called worse. By men, by other women, by strangers on the internet who felt entitled to comment on my appearance because I dared to exist in public spaces while being larger than they deemed acceptable.
It still stings every single time.
But before I can respond, before I can even process the hurt enough to feel angry about it, Graham speaks.
"Say one more word and I'll gag you with your own belt," he says, his voice cold and flat.
Not angry. Just stating a fact. "She's under my protection.
That means she gets respect. You clearly don't understand what that word means, so let me explain in terms you might comprehend: shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you. "
Silence from the back seat.
I glance at Graham, but his eyes are on the road, tracking the bikes in the mirror, his jaw set in a hard line that suggests Vale just made a serious miscalculation.
Something warm and unfamiliar blooms in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like hope that maybe not all men are like the ones I've known, the ones who saw my body as a problem to comment on, a flaw to correct, a joke to share.
"Thank you," I say.
"Don't thank me for basic decency," Graham replies. "He's a prisoner. You're under protection. There's a hierarchy to how people get treated, and he's at the bottom of it."
The way he says it, like there's an actual ranking system and of course I'm higher on it than a man who murders people, makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
I settle for neither and watch the warehouses rushing past instead.
We're deeper into the industrial park now. The buildings are larger here, more spread out, with wide parking lots and loading docks. Most look closed for the day. It's past six PM on a weekday, and whatever businesses operate here have probably sent their workers home already.
Which means fewer witnesses if this goes bad.
Which means we're more isolated.
Which means—
"Stop," Graham says, and it takes me a second to realize he's talking to me, not to the car. "I can hear you spiraling from here. Your breathing just changed. You're running scenarios in your head, calculating odds, catastrophizing outcomes. Am I right?"
He is absolutely right, but I don't want to admit it.
"Maybe," I say instead.
"Understandable. But not helpful. I need you to stay present. Stay focused. Can you do that?"
"I don't know. What does staying present even mean when people are actively trying to kill me?"
"It means trusting that I know what I'm doing. It means not borrowing trouble from potential futures that might not happen. It means breathing, in for four counts, hold for four, out for four. Repeat until your heart rate comes down."
"You want me to do breathing exercises while we're being chased by murderers on motorcycles?"
"Yes. Because panic makes you stupid, and I need you sharp if something goes wrong."
I want to argue. Want to tell him that fear is a perfectly rational response to this situation, that expecting me to just breathe deeply and trust the process is asking too much.
But he's right.
Panic does make you stupid. I've seen it in my own life, the times I made terrible decisions because I was too scared to think clearly, too overwhelmed to see options that were right in front of me.
So, I breathe. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four.
My heart rate doesn't magically slow down, but the breathing gives my brain something to focus on besides the motorcycles getting closer in the mirror.
"Better," Graham says, like he can somehow sense the tiny improvement in my state of mind.
Maybe he can. He seems to notice everything else.
The bikes are maybe fifty yards back now. Close enough that I can make out details: the riders' leather cuts, the patches on their backs that probably mean something in their world, the way the lead rider keeps gesturing to the others like he's coordinating their approach.
"They're going to try to box us in," Graham says, more to himself than to me. "Split formation. One on each side, one behind. Force us to stop or crash."
"Can they do that?"
"They can try. Won't work, but they can try."
He sounds so confident. So absolutely certain that these men who have killed before and clearly want to kill again somehow won't succeed in stopping us. I want that confidence. Want to borrow it, wrap it around myself like a blanket until this is over.
"How do you know it won't work?" I ask.
"Because I'm better than they are. Better trained.
Better equipped. Better at reading patterns and adapting faster than they can react.
" He glances at me briefly, and something in his expression softens just slightly.
"I don't say that to brag. I say it so you know you're safe with me. Even when it doesn't feel like it."
The lead bike pulls up alongside us on the left. The rider, young, maybe mid-twenties, with a patchy beard and wild eyes, is shouting something I can't hear through the closed windows. Probably threats. Probably demands to pull over.
Graham doesn't even look at him.
Instead, he accelerates slightly and angles the sedan toward the bike. Not enough to hit it, just enough to force the rider to back off or risk being sideswiped.
The rider backs off, falling behind again, rejoining his formation.
"That won't hold them long," Graham says. "They'll try again. Different angle."
"What do we do when they try again?"
"Same thing. Make them think twice. Make them hesitate. Buy time until backup arrives."
As if on cue, his phone buzzes. He taps something on the steering wheel and suddenly a voice fills the car through the speakers, some kind of hands-free system I didn't realize was active.
"Ranger, it's Judge. We're five minutes out. Where you at?"
"Miller Road, heading east through the industrial park. Three bikes on my tail, getting aggressive. How's your approach?"
"Coming in from the north on Warehouse Drive. If you can lead them to the intersection of Miller and Fifth, we can cut them off."
Graham processes this instantly. "Fifth is two miles ahead. Can you make that intercept?"
"If you can keep them busy for three more minutes, yeah."
"Copy. Ranger out."
The call ends and Graham immediately adjusts course, taking a turn that I didn't see coming. The sedan handles it smoothly, but the bikes are even smoother, following without losing any ground.
"Three minutes," I repeat, mostly to myself. "We just have to survive three more minutes."
"We'll survive longer than that," Graham says. "But yeah, three minutes until this gets easier."
From the back seat, Vale laughs again, that same cold, humorless sound that makes my skin crawl.
"You really think backup is going to save you? Demon has people everywhere. Your brothers might not even make it here. Might be killed on the way."
"Your brothers are the ones who are dead," Graham reminds him. "One in a motel room, two more probably bleeding out waiting for paramedics who may or may not arrive in time. You want to keep score? Because the Iron Phoenix is winning."
Vale goes quiet again, but I can feel his rage radiating from the back seat like heat from a fire.
I risk a glance back at him. He's staring at Graham with such pure hatred that it actually makes me flinch.
His wrists are red and raw where the zip-ties are cutting into his skin from him pulling against them, and there's dried blood under his nose from where Graham hit him earlier.
He looks exactly like the kind of man who would shoot someone in the head while two others held them down.
He looks exactly like the kind of man who would enjoy it.
I turn back around, unable to stomach looking at him any longer.
"Two minutes," Graham says, and I realize he's been counting in his head this entire time.