She was quiet for a long time, staring at the map on the wall, at the thumbtacks and scrawled notes. When she spoke, her voice was low but clear. “So this isn’t just about me. It’s about making you bleed the way you made him bleed.”
“Bingo,” I said, tapping the desk. “It’s an old man’s vendetta, but he’ll kill every woman, child, or bystander between here and Texas if it means winning.”
She laughed, short and bitter. “And people think politicians are ruthless.”
I poured another round, this time pushing the bottle toward her. “You still want in on this mess, or you want to run back to your security detail and let them try to hide you?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’m staying. Fuck him. Fuck all of them.”
I raised my glass, and she raised hers, and for a moment it felt like we were two soldiers in the same trench, the kind of bond that outlasted logic or sense.
“Welcome to the war, Senator,” I said, clinking our glasses. “Hope you brought a bigger gun than last time.”
She smiled, fierce and sharp. “Just don’t get me killed before the election, and we’ll call it even.”
I grinned, feeling the old fire in my veins. “No promises. But I’ll do my best.”
We sat there, drinking and staring at the map, plotting the next move in a game that neither of us could ever really win. Outside, the sun was setting, turning the desert sky the color of blood and bone. I glanced at Carly, the way she traced the scar on her arm, the set of her jaw. She was tougher than most of the men I’d ever met, and meaner when it counted. I almost pitied Ghost for what was coming.
But only almost. Because deep down, I knew—when it came to old wounds, nobody ever really got closure. We just bled slower.
Carly
A fist slammed against the door, loud enough to rattle the whiskey bottle. Damron was up and moving before I even processed it, hand going to the Glock on his hip. He didn’t ask who it was, just barked, “Clear!” and waited for the answer.
“Prez, it’s Nitro!” The voice was urgent, high, and tight.
Damron thumbed the latch and swung the door open. Nitro barreled in, sweat pouring down his face, a phone clutched in one hand and a bloody rag in the other. “We got movement,” he said, not wasting time with pleasantries. “Your house, Senator. Four cars, at least two with Arizona plates. Ghost is making a play tonight.”
I felt my pulse spike, the adrenaline snapping me back to life.
“How long?” Damron said, grabbing his cut off the chair and shrugging it on.
“They’re not subtle,” Nitro said. “Neighbors already called it in. Cops are two minutes out, but they won’t get there in time.”
Damron turned to me. “We’re going now. Get your shit.”
I didn’t argue. I scooped up my purse, checked the pepper spray (useless) and the Sig Sauer (more promising) in the inside pocket, then followed him down the hall. The club was a beehive, men moving with purpose for once, shotguns and bats coming off racks, boots pounding on concrete. Nobody looked me in the eye, but I could feel the energy shift—this wasn’t a drill, and I was the payload.
Damron made three calls on his burner as we stalked through the lot, voice clipped and all business. “Augustine, you and the prospects block the main drag. I want eyes on every cross street within a mile of the target. If you see anything with a cactus decal or a Jesus fish, call it in. No cowboy shit unless they shoot first."He listened, then snapped, "No, I said no goddamn casualties. Just eyes. Anyone gets trigger-happy, I'll gut them myself."
I followed him to the bike, my heels scraping across the gravel. The clubhouse's lot was alive with activity—engines firing up, men checking weapons, Nitro barking orders to a group of prospects who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. The night air tasted like gasoline and dread.
"You're not riding that," Damron said, nodding at his Harley. "Get in the truck," Damron said, pointing to a black F-150 with tinted windows and a grill guard that looked like it could plow through a concrete wall. "Nitro, take point. I want three bikes ahead, three behind."
I climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cold against my thighs. Damron slid in beside me, his shoulders nearly filling the cab. He tossed me a bulletproof vest that smelled like old sweat.
"Put it on," he ordered, not looking at me as he cranked the engine.
I struggled with the vest, my wounded arm screaming as I tried to work the Velcro straps. Damron reached over without a word, his hands rough but efficient as he tightened the panels across my chest and back. The weight settled heavy against my ribs, making every breath deliberate.
"This thing bulletproof or just wishful thinking?" I asked, testing the fit.
"Depends on the bullet," he said, throwing the truck into gear. "But it'll stop most of what Ghost's boys are packing."
The convoy rolled out like a funeral procession—three Harleys ahead, their engines roaring in perfect synchronization, and three more behind us, close enough that I could see the riders' faces in the side mirrors. Nitro led the pack, his bike weaving through traffic with the kind of precision that came from outrunning cops on a regular basis.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Campaign manager, probably shitting himself wondering where his candidate had disappeared to. I powered it down and tossed it in the glove compartment.
