I don’t trust that.
My comm unit buzzes in my ear, followed by the click of an open line.
Then Tank’s voice comes through, calm and clipped.
“You clear?”
“Working on it. You?”
Tank handles club security. Built like a wall. Violence makes him calmer.
He peeled off when the first girl got sold, followed the transport team out the back, and stayed with them.
“Got eyes on the van,” he says. “Two vehicles with it. Heading toward Black Pines.”
“Copy. Stay on it.”
There’s a short pause.
“You good?”
Tank’s idea of good is simple. Still breathing. Still armed. Still standing.
“I’m riding with one.”
Another pause, and I hear the change in his tone even if it only lasts a second.
“Bring her back safe.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
I check the mirrors again. The closer car takes the turn with us.
Of course it does.
I don’t waste time wondering who it is. I drop a gear and cut onto a back road most locals forgot was ever there. Trees crowd in on both sides, and the road narrows fast, all shadow and gravel and blind curves. It’s the kind of road that punishes hesitation, which is exactly why I take it.
Ruby presses closer against my back. Her breathing stays ragged, but she’s trying to keep it quiet.
I know that kind of quiet.
The kind you learn when making noise gets you hurt.
My jaw tightens.
I take the next bend, then another, and by the time the road dips low beneath the pines, the headlights behind us are gone.
Good.
My shoulder starts to ache where the shrapnel tore through it years ago.
Ruby shifts against my back but doesn’t let go.
One of our safe houses sits between Swoon Peaks and Lovestone Ridge, hidden in a stretch of forest nobody wanders into unless they’re lost or trying not to be found. The Damned Saints use it for exactly that.
Small cabin. Four walls. A narrow bed. A fireplace that works when it feels like it. Two mismatched chairs. A little table dragged close to the heat. A kitchenette that barely counts, just a counter, a kettle, and a sink. A bathroom with a shower.
