Ghost follows her out, pausing at the door. “I’ll keep her safe.”
“I know.”
The door closes. Titan and I are alone in the office.
“This is the right call,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“Doesn’t mean it feels right.” Titan stares at the closed door. “She’s going to hate us for this.”
“She’ll be alive to hate us. That’s what matters.”
“Is it?” He looks at me. “Or are you just telling yourself that so you can sleep at night?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re sending away the one person who makes any of this worth fighting for.” He heads for the door. “Hope it’s worth it.”
He leaves.
I sink into my chair and stare at the map on my desk. The compound. The territory. The targets. Everything I’m supposed to protect.
Except the most important thing is about to leave. And I’m the one who ordered her to go.
An hour later, I watch from my office window as Ghost loads bags into his truck. Bonnie climbs into the passenger seat, small and fragile-looking in the dim light. Ghost gets in beside her. The engine starts. Headlights cut through the darkness.
And then they’re gone.
The compound feels emptier already.
Titan appears beside me at the window. We stand in silence, watching the taillights disappear. “Now what?” he asks.
“Now we end this war.” I turn away from the window. “Call the brothers. We’re going on the offensive.”
“About damn time.”
We head downstairs to the meeting room. To plan. To strategize. To do what we do best. But my mind keeps drifting to that truck. To Ghost and Bonnie, driving into the night.
To the woman I love and the man she listens to more than me.
The right call. This was the right call.
So why does it feel like I just made the biggest mistake of my life?
29
GHOST
The safe house sits thirty miles outside Bakersfield, hidden at the end of a dirt road that doesn’t appear on any map.
I’ve been checking the rearview mirror for the past hour. Nothing but empty highway and darkness. No headlights following. No bikes in the distance.
We’re clear.
Bonnie hasn’t spoken since we left the compound. Just stares out the window, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold everything together.
I want to reach over and take her hand. Tell her it’ll be okay. But I don’t know if that’s true.
The turnoff is barely visible—just two ruts in the desert leading into nowhere. I take it slow, headlights bouncing off scrub brush and rocks.
