I crawled up from the floor, shaking, just in time to see the last two bikers hesitate. They rode parallel for a moment, indecision written in the wobble of their lines, then peeled off—one into the ditch, the other gunning it for the main road.
Jo didn’t waste time. He slammed the truck into gear and powered out of the ditch, mud and broken glass spraying in hiswake. He didn’t look at me, just kept his eyes forward, knuckles white on the wheel.
I found my phone in the footwell, still miraculously in one piece, and checked my hand. The glass had sliced a neat V into the web between thumb and finger, but it wasn’t deep. I ripped a corner off Jo’s flannel, wrapped it tight, and flexed my fingers until the blood slowed.
The truck roared through a stand of trees and broke out onto the main road, tires squealing. In the rearview, I saw a streak of red taillight—Harley’s bike, or what was left of it—wobbling to a stop behind us. Then the world went pure white as Jo hit the floodlights again, burning away the shadows and the panic.
“Are you hit?” he said, voice flat, eyes scanning the road.
“No,” I said, and then saw the blood streaking down his face, bright against the skin at his temple. “But you—”
“It’s nothing,” he snapped, wiping it away with the back of his hand. The blood smeared, but he didn’t wince, just blinked away the sweat and glass and kept driving.
“Should I—”
“Stay down. We’re not clear yet.”
I ducked, half on the seat, half on the floor, watching the world through the lattice of busted glass. Ahead, the blacktop shimmered with heat and dust, the horizon flat and endless.
But behind us, in the mess of trees and headlights, I could still see Harley—one hand on his helmet, the other braced on what was left of the handlebars, staring after us like a man who’d just lost his favorite toy.
Jo checked the mirror again, then hit the gas. The engine screamed, but the truck held the line, eating up the last miles to the turnoff.
Then, as we crested a hill, the cavalry arrived.
Four pickup trucks, headlights blazing, barreled up the center line, side by side. The one in the middle had the McKenzielogo stenciled on the hood, just above the bug-splattered grill. In the beds, shadows moved—figures with shotguns, axes, one idiot with what looked like a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.
They didn’t even try to be subtle. The McKenzie trucks formed a wedge, forcing the remaining bikers off the pavement and onto the shoulder. There was a crunch, a spray of gravel, and then the trucks circled up like wagons around us, engines idling in the dusk.
Bo. Stay in the truck.The words echoed from my phone, Knox’s voice coming through the cracked speaker, thick with adrenaline and something else—fear, maybe, or just the kind of anger that came out when you saw your baby brother nearly murdered on a back road.
I stayed put, heart thrumming, watching as Jo killed the engine and let the silence settle. The brothers piled out of their trucks in a tangle of boots and bad ideas.
Ransom was first—bare-chested and barefoot, like he’d rolled out of bed and straight into a street fight. Next was Quiad, in a battered field jacket and carrying a length of chain that looked suspiciously like it used to belong to Harley.
Knox moved slower, calculated, his shotgun held low but ready. He scanned the tree line, then walked up to our truck and peered in through the busted window.
“You alive?” he said, voice like ground glass.
I nodded, not trusting my mouth.
He looked at Jo, then the blood on his face, and nodded once, satisfied. “You good?”
Jo shrugged. “Took a hit. Nothing broken.”
Knox grunted, then opened the door and yanked me out, one arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the center of the circle. My legs felt like they’d turned to noodles, but I managed to stay upright, even when the world started to spin.
In the space between the trucks, the McKenzies formed up—bigger, meaner, and a hell of a lot more pissed than I’d ever seen them. Ransom spat on the ground, eyes still locked on the trees. Quiad swung the chain in slow circles, testing the weight.
Harley’s bike sputtered, then died. He limped out of the brush, helmet gone, blood running down the side of his face in a crooked line. He looked at the circle of trucks, the shotguns, the chain, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.
He wiped his mouth, then glared at me. “This isn’t over, Bo.”
Knox took a step forward, gun loose in his grip. “Yeah, it is.”
For a second, I thought Harley might go for the gun at his belt, but instead he just spat blood onto the road, got back on the busted bike, and gunned it into the dark. The other bikers followed, tails between their legs.
The silence after was absolute. I stood there, breathing hard, until the shakes started in earnest. My hands buzzed, my jaw wouldn’t stop trembling, and the taste of blood filled my mouth.
