"RJ."
I turn to find Runes standing behind me, his own weapons strapped on, his expression hard as granite.
He looks older than he did this morning.
More worn. Like the last hour has aged him ten years.
"We're almost ready to roll," he says. "Two minutes."
"Good."
He doesn't move.
Just stands there, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
Eyes that remind me of Dalla's, though I'd never tell him that.
"She means something to you," he says finally. "I knew that. Didn't want to admit it, but I knew." He pauses. "I'm trusting you with her life."
"I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." His jaw tightens. "Because if you did, I'd kill you myself."
It should be a threat.
But the way he says it—tired, scared, desperate—it sounds more like a prayer.
Like he's asking me to be the thing he can't be right now.
The calm in the storm.
The weapon that doesn't miss.
The man who brings his daughter home.
"I'm going to bring her home," I say. "Whatever it takes."
"There's something else." He hesitates, which isn't like him. "When you find Solveig—when you end this—I want you to know... you have my blessing. Whatever happens after. With Dalla."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
All those death glares, all that silent hostility, all that protective father energy—and now this.
Now, when his daughter is missing and we're about to ride into battle, he's giving me his blessing.
"Thank you," I manage.
He nods once, then he turns and walks toward the trucks, barking orders at the prospects loading gear.
I take one last breath, one last moment of stillness.
Then I follow him out into the sunlight, where an army of bikers is waiting to ride to war.
The ride takes less than an hour.
I count every single minute.
Every mile marker, every intersection, every bend in the road.
