The prospect blinked. “You want me to—”
“Go,” Damron said, and the prospect vanished in a blur of nervous compliance.
He started the engine. The vibration rattled his teeth, but it was better than the hum of hospital machines. He rode one-handed at first, the other clamped to his ribs. Every bump in the pavement sent a fresh bolt of fire up his spine, but he didn’t slow. He just adjusted his angle, steered into the pain instead of away from it. At the first stoplight, he caught his reflection in the shop window. The face was gaunt, jawline sharper than he remembered. He checked his left hand, saw the empty strip of skin where the wedding ring used to live. The sun glared off it, so he turned the hand over and gripped it tighter.
The liquor store was a cinder block cube on the corner. He parked the Harley at the door, ignored the stares from the woman in the minivan and the guy stocking the ice machine. Inside, it was cold and smelled like wet cardboard. The clerk barely looked up when Damron dropped a bottle of high-end whiskey on the counter and paid with a twenty and a handful ofdimes. He twisted the cap off before he was out the door. Took a mouthful. Let it burn. He forgot about the prospect.
Back on the bike, the world spun for a second, but he held steady. He’d always been good with pain, better with anger. He put both hands on the bars, gunned the engine, and left the parking lot in a snarl of tire and smoke. He didn’t think about the house. He didn’t think about what he’d find there. He just rode, all the way home, never once letting up on the throttle.
The house looked wrong. Not broken into, not trashed, just wrong. The front steps needed sweeping and there was a newspaper rotting in the weeds, but that was normal. What wasn’t normal was the air inside: empty, no radio, no argument, no footsteps from the back room. Just stillness. Damron closed the door behind him, listened to the sound of it latching. He waited, half-expecting to hear the echo of another pair of boots, the thud of a body on the couch, the scuff of a chair in the kitchen. Nothing. He walked into the living room and dropped his keys on the side table, the jingle too loud in the silence.
He set the whiskey on the coffee table, took a long drink, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The room was bigger than he remembered, or maybe it was just that half the shit was gone. The bookshelves were stripped down, no more legal pads or campaign folders. The couch was bare except for a single throw pillow—her favorite, the one she used to prop behind her lower back when she was working late and didn’t want to admit it hurt. It looked like a joke now, a prop in a room no one was watching.
He moved to the kitchen, each step echoing on the hardwood. The magnets on the fridge were rearranged, the calendar blank for the next three months. There was a sticky note on the counter with a takeout order from last week. He read it, then tossed it in the trash. He opened the cabinet above the sink—her coffee mug, the chipped blue one she called “old faithful,” was missing. The hook where it hung was empty, a dumb little wound.
He went down the hall to the bathroom. The counter was wiped clean, no lipstick, no hairbrush, no perfume bottle in the shape of a naked woman. Only his razor and a bar of soap with a hair frozen inside it. He stared at the sink for a full minute, trying to remember if he’d ever seen it this empty. Maybe not since the day he moved in. He found the note in the bedroom. It was on his nightstand, propped against the bottle of Advil she’d left for him. Her wedding ring was next to it, the gold so bright it looked fake. He picked up the ring, rolled it in his palm, then set it down again. He unfolded the note.
The handwriting was tight, almost angry. “I can’t do this anymore. Not after last night. I’m sorry.” That was it. No signature, no name, like a ransom demand. He crumpled the note in his fist, held it there until the skin on his knuckles went white, then let it fall to the floor. He noticed the photo next. The wedding picture, face-down on the dresser, the back of the frame dusty and scratched. He picked it up and flipped it over. They looked happy, idiots with no clue what was coming. She’d hated the picture—said she looked drunk, said he looked like a thug. Maybe she was right.
He hurled the photo against the wall. The glass shattered, the frame splintered, and the picture fluttered to the ground. He didn’t move to pick it up. He just stood there, breathing hard, the room finally as empty as it felt. He took another swallow of whiskey and waited for the pain to fade.
Chapter five
Damron
Isquinted into the desert haze, a predator’s smile tugging at my lips. The guns gleamed beneath the New Mexico sun, and I inspected them with methodical reverence. Barrels, actions, rounds. All there. Sweat soaked through my shirt, but I paid it no mind. Nitro stood sentinel, radio in hand, the crackle a low whisper of static. Our job was almost done when the horizon growled with engines, a storm of metal and dust. I flipped a crate and drew heat. It was chaos and noise and blood, and it was goddamn glorious.
Three years of bullshit negotiations, empty threats, and backstabbing allies. It all came down to this—a load of sweet firepower delivered into his hands. I didn’t trust like I used to, but I trusted guns. The high desert sun was burning up the dirt, warping the horizon. I ran a thumb over an AR-15’s body, worked its action, and counted the magazines. The tang of metal hung in the air. I fucking savored the smell.
Nitro stood ten paces back, his eyes hidden by dark glasses. “You good, Damron?” he barked, the radio adding a jittery harmony of static to his voice.
“Almost.” I nodded, straightening up.
A grin cut across Nitro’s face as he gave a last look around. “Wrap it up, and let’s blow this shithole.” That’s when we heard the growl of engines, a low rumble that had nothing to do with thunder and everything to do with trouble. This is the part I loved about being an outlaw biker. That and the endless supply of pussy. I didn’t pretend with the women around me. They knew exactly what they were getting and what they weren’t. Hit the road or not. I called it honesty. They called it being an asshole. What they didn’t understand is that once a man liked me was burned by a woman, there was no coming back from that shit. Not now. Not ever.
The old truck kicked up dust like a fucking sandstorm, a human hurricane of leather and guns riding its wake. I dropped into a crouch, muscles coiled. The first bullets splintered a crate next to me, spraying the deal’s careful planning into the dirt. I rolled to cover, the familiar heat of a Glock filling my hand. Nitro was already moving, tossing a fresh magazine his way. The kid didn’t need words to understand. It’s why I kept him close.
Rival cuts sped toward us, a moving wall of gunfire. They were hoping to catch us flat-footed, hoping we’d run. They didn’t know us at all.
“Get ready to fucking die, Scythes!” someone shouted from the truck, a voice already lost to chaos. I could barely hear it over the sweet roar of blood in my ears.
I stood calm in the middle of that chaos, popping up from cover long enough to line up my first shot. A man pitched sideways from his bike, blood misting the air where my head used to be. My second shot took down another rider, the guy spinning like a broken doll before hitting the ground. The truck skidded to a halt, and the rest of the rivals fanned out. It was seven to two, odds that I liked just fine.
The acrid bite of gunpowder filled the air as I moved through it with precise efficiency, always one step ahead of where they expected me. Nitro had taken position behind a stack of crates, rifle barking out cover fire. I felt a sharp burn along my side, but refused to slow down. My shoulder drove into a biker’s gut, knocking him to the dirt. With a strong right, I broke the man’s jaw with a wet crack.
Nitro’s voice came sharp over the radio. “Damron! Right!”
I ducked as a volley of shots hit where I’d been standing. Two more bikers closed in, using the dust cloud as cover. I crouched low and waited, timing it just right. They thought they had me, but the fight was already over. I moved with brutal efficiency, my knife flashing out like it had a mind of its own. I drove it into the first attacker’s ribs, twisting until the man went limp, eyes wide with surprise. A kick to the knee dropped the second attacker. I finished him with a bullet to the head, point-blank and merciless.
All that was left was the rival leader, a man who thought his men would be enough to take us down. He was learning how wrong he was, and he was learning it fast. I came at him with the knife, knocking away the gun he held like it was a child’s toy. We grappled, but my knuckles were there, punching out any last thoughts of resistance. I had him on his knees, broken and bleeding in the dirt.
The rival leader coughed, blood staining his teeth. “Whitman sends his—”
The bullet in his skull ended that conversation. Smoke curled into the sky, black and lazy. The dust settled, revealing seven bodies scattered like torn-up paper. I stood amidst the wreckage, untouched by the chaos we’d created. A quick pat on my side showed a clean shot through my shirt, nothing more than a scratch. I grunted with satisfaction, avoiding death once again.
Nitro emerged from cover, scanning the horizon. “Look at this fucking mess.”
I nodded, a flicker of a predator’s smile still on my lips. “Bag the money. We’re done here.”
