Her brow knits."Still.A warning would have been nice."
I grip the wheel tighter, feeling the pulse hammering in my wrists.I can’t answer her, not with Marquez listening in.
But the implications settle between us like a weight.If there's a leak in Marquez's operation, we're both targets.And if he finds out about the ambush from someone else before we tell him, we're the first people he'll suspect.
Nine
Adena
The Pine Ridge Motor Inn looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1987—peeling paint, gravel chewed into potholes, a neon VACANCY sign flickering through the rain like it’s fighting to stay alive.Jagger swings the truck around to the back where it’s shielded from the road and kills the engine.
“I’ll check us in,” I say, already reaching for the door.
“Use cash.And not your real name.”
I shoot him anare-you-kidding-melook, then step out into the rain.It’s colder than I expect, sharp enough to make my skin prickle.The office is only a few yards away, but my legs feel heavier with every step—like the adrenaline from the highway hasn’t quite finished draining from my system.
Inside, a wall-mounted TV plays a muted weather report—storms sweeping across the state, warnings scrolling across the bottom.The man at the counter doesn’t look up until I set a folded stack of bills in front of him.
“One night,” I say.
He eyes the cash, then my face, then the rain dripping off my jacket.Just a flick of curiosity before he reaches behind him and grabs a key on a faded yellow tag.
“Room twelve,” he mutters, sliding it across the counter.
As I jog back to the truck, my mind keeps replaying the ambush whether I want it to or not—the SUV drifting into us, the seatbelt biting into my shoulder, the pickup slamming us from behind, my gun firing through the rain as if someone else were pulling the trigger.
When I reach the truck and open the door, Jagger’s watching me, one hand braced on the roof, rain running off his jacket in steady rivulets.“Which one?”
“Lucky number twelve.”
Not that I believe in luck.
The motel door resists before it gives way, and a wave of damp, heavy air spills out—old curtains clinging to humidity, carpet that’s absorbed a lifetime of rain.
I step inside first and set the key on the table, trying to still the shake in my hands.
Jagger closes the door behind us and locks it twice, checks the chain, then rams a chair under the doorknob.He keeps his back to me a moment longer than necessary—either giving me space or pulling himself together.Maybe both.
When he finally turns, his eyes go straight to my hands.
“You okay, Tiger?You’re trembling.”
His shirt is soaked through, clinging to his frame, and there's a dark stain spreading across his right shoulder that has nothing to do with rain.
"Don’t worry about me.I’m not the one who's sprung a leak.”
He looks down and pulls off his jacket, sits on the bed, and tosses it across the room.“It’s an old wound.Must have aggravated it.”
Aggravated is an understatement.“Let me see before you add another stain to the carpet.”
His eyebrow hikes.“Careful.I’ll think you care.”
A stupid flush creeps up my neck, so I turn away and dig out the first aid kit I packed.When I turn back, he's already unbuttoning his shirt.“This isn’t over.They didn’t get what they wanted,” he says.
I frown at him.“But they got more than they bargained for.”
A wry smile appears as the fabric peels away from his shoulder, and I get my first look at the damage.It’s a knife wound that blends into one of his inkwork—a clean line across his delt, maybe two inches long.It’s angry and red, like he never treated it properly.
