I almost smile. She’s terrified, running for her life, and she’s quoting sentencing guidelines.
“The old rules don’t apply anymore, Counselor. The faster you accept that, the better your chances.”
Her hands curl into fists on her knees. “I’ve spent my entire career upholding the law.”
“And Phoenix spent the last forty-eight hours planning your murder. So we adapt.”
The rest stop is nearly empty. Good. A semi-truck. A Kia. A Ford F-150 with contractor logos on the side.
I pull into a spot away from the lights. Kill the engine.
“Stay here.”
“What are you?—”
“Stay. Here.”
I grab my pack. Inside: lock pick set, Slim Jim, spare burner phones, cash. The tools of the trade. I step out into the cold air.
The F-150 is my best bet. Older model. Less likely to have advanced anti-theft systems. The owner is likely inside using the facilities.
Five minutes. Maybe ten.
I move across the lot. Purposeful. Casual. Nobody looks twice at a man who acts like he belongs.
The truck is unlocked. Amateur.
I slide into the driver’s seat. Check the glove box—registration, insurance, receipts. Nothing useful. The ignition is old-style. No push-button start.
Perfect.
I go to work on the column. Forty seconds to strip the ignition cover and bridge the starter wires. The engine turns over with a throat roar.
Thank you, 1990s engineering.
I pull around to the Honda.
Cassie is in the sedan. Her eyes follow me. She looks terrified, but she climbs into the passenger seat without a word.
I transfer the gear. Fast. Efficient. We’re back on Route 15 before anyone notices the truck is gone.
“You’ve done this before,” Cassie says. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at my hands on the wheel. Her gaze lingers on the scar across my knuckles.
“Twelve times.”
“Twelve extractions.”
“Yes.”
“How many survived?”
The question hits me in the chest. A physical weight. I grip the wheel. My knuckles turn white.
“Seven.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Suffocating. The miles roll by. The sun is fully up now, lighting the interior of the cab. I can smell her scent over the stale coffee smell of the truck—something soft, vanilla, and sweet. It’s distracting.
“What happened to the other five?”
