Chapter 41
The Quiet Between Flames
By the time Ren reached the edge of the next town, the adrenaline was wearing thin.
Her hands still shook on the grips, the wind biting through her jacket like it wanted her bones. The sun sat high now, pale, and cold. Smoke from the bridge still stained the horizon behind her—a black thread unraveling against the sky.
She slowed on the outskirts of town, coasting past faded billboards and rusted silos. A line of empty freight cars sat on the tracks, graffiti curling across their sides like bruises. The place was too quiet. No dogs. No trucks. Not even a breeze.
The dragon inside her was silent again but not gone. Just listening.
“You are being hunted,” it murmured.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “That’s the point.”
She pulled into an abandoned service station a half mile off the main road. The sign above the pump was sun-bleached to nothing, just ghost letters. Perfect.
Ren cut the engine. The sudden quiet made her ears ring. She sat for a long time, just breathing, watching the shimmer of the heat on the asphalt.
Her ribs hurt—she’d hit harder than she’d realized when the bike went airborne on that ridge. When she peeled her jacket off, the shirt beneath was stiff with blood on the shoulder. It didn’t matter. Nothing she hadn’t ridden through before.
She dug a bottle of water from her saddlebag, poured some over her hands, and splashed the rest on her face. The cool shock helped her focus.
Her phone was still dark—no service. The jammer radius stretched farther than she’d thought.
Tater would be moving by now.
He’d seen the fire. He’d know.
She smiled faintly, despite the ache in her jaw. “You’ll find me,” she whispered.
The chain lay heavy in her pocket. She pulled it out, turning it in her hand. The sunlight made the small dent glint gold instead of silver.
That dent—the mark from Tater’s thumb years ago—felt like a heartbeat under her fingers.
“You’d hate this,” she said to the empty air. “Me bleeding, the road watching, the whole damn world on fire again.”
The dragon stirred. “He would follow anyway.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “He would.”
She wrapped the chain once around her wrist, tucking the loose end into her sleeve.
If they caught her, they’d have to take it off her cold dead body.
A sound.
Not loud, but wrong.
Ren froze, head tilting.
A truck door, maybe half a mile off. Metal squeak. Voices low and careful.
She moved to the edge of the station wall and peered through a broken pane.
Two black SUVs parked by the grain silos. Men in gray jackets stood near the tailgates, one holding a clipboard, another speaking into a radio. Not Hades Hellhounds—too clean. Too calm.
Cartel.
Her pulse steadied. She counted heads. Five outside. Maybe more inside the lead truck.
They weren’t unloading; they were staging. A midpoint between shipments. Golden gate wasn’t a place—it was a route stop. The town wasn’t abandoned; it was owned.
Ren crouched, slid her knife from her boot, and took a long breath.
“You cannot face them all,” the dragon warned.
“I don’t need to,” she whispered. “I just need their map.”
She moved like smoke—low, patient, her boots silent in the dust. The men’s voices carried easy in the dry air.
“…next load by noon,” one said. “Runner from Boise delayed, bridge went up. Orders are to reroute south.”
The other man cursed softly. “That’s the third one this week. Someone’s bleeding our supply lines.”
Ren smiled to herself. Good.
She waited until they turned toward the second SUV, then slipped behind the first. The back door was cracked open; clipboard left on the seat. She slid it free, eyes scanning fast—codes, coordinates, shipping lanes. And at the bottom, two words circled in red: GOLDEN GATE TRANSFER — LIVE HAUL.
Her stomach tightened. “Live.”
Not weapons. Not cargo.
People.
She folded the sheet, shoved it under her jacket. The dragon’s breath warmed her chest.” Now we burn them.”
“Not yet,” she said.
The crunch of boots behind her.
Ren spun. A man stood ten feet away, hand halfway to the pistol on his belt. His eyes widened when he saw her face. Recognition flickered there—he’d seen her photo somewhere.
He opened his mouth to shout.
She was faster.
The knife flashed once, quick, and clean she cut his throat, and he dropped without a sound.
She caught his body before it hit the gravel, dragged him behind the SUV. Her heart was steady, her breathing calm.
The dragon purred. “You are learning to listen.”
“Maybe,” she said, wiping the blade clean on his jacket. “Or maybe I’m just tired of mercy.”
A distant rumble rolled through the air—engines. Heavy, familiar.
Ren’s head snapped up. She knew that sound.
Tater’s bikes.
Her chest loosened, just a little.
The cartel men heard it too. Heads turned, radios lifted. Shouts cut the stillness.
Ren backed away, slipping through the shadows of the silos. The roar grew louder, spreading across the highway.
Then the first Bastard appeared—Tater’s bike cresting the ridge, sun flashing off chrome.
Eagle was behind him, eyes scanning the horizon like a hunter.
The cartel scrambled for cover.
Ren didn’t wait. She darted toward the station, fired once into the air. The sharp crack drew the Bastards’ eyes toward her.
Tater saw her—just a flash of recognition, a glint of light off the chain around her wrist. His mouth moved, but the wind stole the word.
Then everything broke loose.
Gunfire tore through the quiet town. Dust rose, tires screamed.
Ren ducked behind the wall, firing back, the dragon’s heat crawling up her throat like a song she couldn’t hold in anymore.
For a second, just one heartbeat, she thought—Maybe we actually make it out of this one.
And then the grenade went off.