Chapter Twenty Blaze
Chapter Twenty
Blaze
I blow on the shavings gathered on top of the pawn. They scatter all across the chessboard that I carved while I was overseas.
A humorless smirk tugs at my lips.
How ironic that I chose to whittle that specific chess piece tonight, of all nights.
Pawn is a role that I’ve been stuck in over the years. First, with my dad, then that fucker Wilkerson.
And he hasn’t stopped, which is why I have no fucking delusions about this job. There’s no way he needs me to handle one transport for him. He’s testing me to make sure I still have my edge and can use my training if it comes down to it.
I hold up the piece and stare at it. Smooth head, perfect shape, precise edges. I’ve worked on this pawn for weeks now, every minute a test of my patience and focus. While I was on tour overseas, whittling kept my mind at peace while turmoil and chaos ensued around me.
Liam was an expert whittler, and he taught me the proper technique and use of the sharp knife.
I run my fingers over the contrasting colors of the smooth board squares.
He’d have loved this. I started making it because we first bonded over chess in the early days.
It was our thing, the way we liked to unwind.
And shit was tense over there, so practicing ways to keep a level head was important. Life or death, really.
I place the piece on the board and toss the knife onto my desk. Leaning back against my chair, I push back my hair. A deep sigh shudders my shoulders.
“I fucking miss you, man,” I mutter, running my fingers over his dog tags. I thought when I finished the chessboard and pieces, I could send it to his wife and daughter, just as a token.
As if it could bring them comfort.
“Fucking stupid.” I grunt. My eyes fall to my phone.
Just about midnight. Time to go.
I grab my hat and put it on. Then I put my gun in the waistband of my jeans and pocket my fake registration and burner phone. Precautions, just in case shit goes sideways.
The house is quiet when I head downstairs. Everyone is out.
I pull on my boots and grab my keys, taking one last look at the house behind me. It’s weird that I suddenly feel so nostalgic. That’s not really like me. I don’t dwell in the past because there’s a lot of bad shit back there that I want to forget.
But for some reason, my mind won’t let me tonight.
And in the center of it all is Savannah.
The need to see her, to feel her, almost makes me detour over to Red Rock.
I let out a sharp hiss of breath as I hop into my truck and turn on the ignition. I press the gas pedal to the floor, the engine roaring like my mind.
Even if I went to her . . . even if I risked everything, told Wilkerson to do his own dirty work, and said fuck it with this job . . . she’d never have me, anyway. And that’s without even knowing who I really am and what I’ve done. She’d hate me even more if she knew the truth.
Maybe deep down it’s why I keep pushing her away.
A tiny part of me wants to hang on to her fantasies about the guy she used to know.
Dammit, I want to be that guy again, the one who was happy and didn’t have fucking criminals threatening him or thug-ass gangs looking for revenge over old beefs.
I hate the person I’ve become. Hard. Closed off. Alone.
But you can’t ever go backward. I’ve learned that.
I grip the wheel tight, rolling a toothpick from left to right in my mouth.
Wilkerson sent directions to my burner phone, said I need to steer clear of certain highways just to keep off the radar of local law enforcement.
He’s got me going through random back roads to avoid the interstate since the pickup is in Old Forge, Montana, right over the border.
It’s damn near pitch black when I roll up to the dilapidated building in the literal middle of nowhere. My insides plunge into a deep freeze, and again, I have to wonder what the hell I’m walking into. I step onto the uneven dirt path, the gun cool against my flushed skin.
It’s the only comfort I have as I inch toward the metal door.
My heart rattles in my chest, the rustle of tumbleweed blowing through the open fields making my insides churn. I force out a breath.
For fuck’s sake, I need to pull myself together. If they see any hint of panic or unease, they’ll ice me on the spot.
I don’t know what has me so twisted. I’ve done shit like this plenty of times for him over the years, but tonight just feels . . . different. Can’t explain why there’s a nagging, annoying-as-fuck voice yelling at me to run. Fast and far away.
Squaring my shoulders, I look up to the black sky, the stars pretty much the only light guiding my path.
An active distribution center should have shipments moving in and out, especially at night when there’s little chance of anyone stumbling upon the operation. But this place is dead quiet.
Dead. Fuck.
I pull open the door, the rusted metal hinges creaking. What the hell? Why is the place so dark? They had to know I was coming to make a pickup.
Stepping inside, I keep one hand around my back, ready to grab the gun if I need to.
My other hand holds out my phone, using the flashlight to find my way around.
Just like the place in Birch Falls, this space is empty other than rows of wooden crates.
The thick stench of rotten garbage, fried food, and weed makes my stomach roil.
It hangs heavy in the air, sticking in my throat when I try to breathe.
An overhead fluorescent light flickers on, and I stop short just before my foot crashes into a metal column. My head jerks left and right for any sign of movement.
I part my lips, but my throat is so tight, I can barely squeeze out a word.
A menacing voice growls from behind me. “What do you want?”
I twist around, the gun in my outstretched hand.
The guy in front of me just lifts an eyebrow. Probably not the first time someone’s pointed a gun at him. Actually . . . I narrow my eyes at a scar on his right arm . . . looks like he’s already been shot at too.
“Here for a pickup. Wilkerson sent me.”
Fuck my life. Am I ever gonna be free from him?
But I already know the answer. He’ll never let me walk away without hurting someone I care about. The only reason why they’re still alive is because I’ve accepted this fucking fate. The second I lose value is the second he finishes me off. Then I’m no use to anyone.
He nods and runs a hand over his bald scalp. Tattoos cover the skin and trail down the side of his neck. His arms are inked up too. Unlike the guy in Birch Falls, this guy is big, his face twisted into a scowl. He’s clearly the muscle of the operation.
“He said he was sending a soldier, not some pretty boy in a cowboy getup.”
And an asshole to boot.
“How I look doesn’t fucking matter, does it? What matters is me making the delivery. So why don’t you load me up and then fuck off?”
The guy chuckles. “A wannabe-badass pretty boy. Yeah, you’ll fly under the radar right nice. And if a cop stops you, just tell him you’ll suck his dick.”
My finger itches where it sits on the trigger. I wanna squeeze it so fucking badly right now.
The guy pushes past me and starts loading crates onto a hand truck. “I ain’t alone here, boy. You start shooting, so will my guys. And trust me, takin’ a bullet will be the least of your problems.”
I bite back the words fighting to explode from my lips because I’d really like to get the hell out of here alive. I pile the crates into my flatbed and cover it once everything is accounted for.
The guy eyes me up again once we’re finished. Then with a scoff, he pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and walks back into the building.
I don’t waste a second jumping into my truck.
I whip the steering wheel around, the tires catching on the gravel as I peel past the barbed wire fence lining the place.
He may have been bullshitting me about the other guys hawking the building, but I sure as hell don’t want to hang around for any longer than I need to and risk proving him right.
Wannabe-badass cowboy. I roll my eyes. I could’ve filleted that guy in a hot fucking second.
I drive into the darkness, the headlights my only guide and George Strait’s smooth baritone my only distraction from the thoughts assaulting my mind.
By the time I roll back into town, it’ll be nearly dawn.
I could make a pit stop at Red Rock on my way home.
It’s time for me to break something else that’ll send Savvie into another spiral.
But I have no interest in fucking with her tonight.
Only fucking her.
I scrub a hand down the front of my face. I can’t do it. She wants it, and hell, I definitely want it. But then what? The truth will come out, and she’ll go back to hating me.
The only reason why Nash hasn’t told her what really happened the night her parents died is because he’s just as guilty as I am. So for as much as he despises me, he’ll bury the truth because exposing it means exposing himself. But Wilkerson does not have that reservation.
An hour into the drive, a light flashes up ahead. Fuck. The cops.
I squint, the light getting brighter as I close in on the trucks blocking the road.
Cold snakes through my bones as a group of armed guys moves toward me.
Not cops.
I suddenly feel like Sonny Corleone driving through the tollbooth in The Godfather.
Nash’s words pop between my ears like bullets. “They know you. They’ll come for you.”
These guys are part of the Iron Horse syndicate. Rivals Wilkerson has wanted to eliminate for years.
“Get the fuck outta the truck, Hartman,” one of them yells.
“The fuck I will,” I say.
The guy laughs and points his gun at my front headlight. He squeezes off a shot. “Get out, or the next shot fired will blow off your fucking head.”
I eye the group, the gun burning a hole in my back. I’m a sitting duck in the truck. If I have any shot of escaping these assholes, I have to take them out on foot.
I push open the door and step out.