Damron stood in my way. “Augustine,” he said, quiet, trying to block the door. “Let her go.”
I shoved him. “She’s out there alone with Leatherbacks hunting her. You think Cutler’s gonna play nice if she shows up on her own?”
He didn’t answer.
I checked my Glock, racked it, and grabbed my keys off the wall. “If she’s gone, so am I.”
Damron put a hand on my chest. “You leave now, you start the war yourself.”
“Then let it start,” I spat and pushed through him. “I’m not going as a Scythe. I’m going as me.”
“You’re going as a Scythe,” Damron corrected. When push came to shove, we were all one.
I hit the parking lot at a run, the sun burning through the haze and making every shadow a potential death trap. In the distance, I caught the blur of Melissa’s hair as she sprinted toward the old train depot, a half mile off and closing fast.
Behind me, Damron’s voice was a curse and a benediction at once: “You got two days, Augustine! Two fucking days before this all goes to hell!”
But I didn’t turn. I just twisted the throttle on my Harley and took off after her, the roar of the engine drowning out every thought except one.
If I didn’t get there first, neither of us was making it out alive.
6
Augustine
Igunned the throttle so hard my knuckles went bloodless. I’d lost sight of Melissa somewhere between the old depot and Highway 84, the only hint of her a dust wake and the memory of her hair flashing. There was no question what I had to do—none of that sit and wait, play defense like Damron always preached. I’d tracked runaways before, but it was never personal. This time, every mile she put between us felt like someone was peeling skin from my bones.
I hit the first motel on the strip, a concrete outhouse with neon that stuttered. No sign of her. I kicked in the door of a room that stank of bleach and old cum, found nothing but a couple fucking in the dark. The man threatenedme with a tire iron. I yanked it out of his hand and tossed it.
The train station was dead. No trains for hours, nobody in the lobby except a toothless lady cleaning the vending machine. “You see a redhead in a club jacket? Maybe bleeding?” I barked. She pointed at the trail of footprints drying on the tile, but they ended at the street.
Bus depot, then. By now the sun was dropping fast, that desert twilight where every shadow seemed loaded. There was a bus idling by the curb, lights on, and through the smoked glass I could make out a dozen silhouettes. Two of them could’ve been Melissa if you squinted—same height, same posture, a little too upright for someone who belonged here—but when I yanked open the folding door, neither even looked up.
“Hey,” I called out, voice gone rough. “You see a girl—” I stopped myself, realized I had no fucking clue how to describe her in a way that didn’t sound like a manhunt.
The driver just shrugged. “Ain’t my business, friend. Try the diner.” He shut the door in my face.
By now, the Harleys’ pipes were screaming for mercy, and my head was pounding with it. I peeled out and hit every shit-lit restaurant within three miles: the Gator Grill, the Fry King, that overpriced green chile joint by the old courthouse. I checked the bathrooms, peekedbehind kitchen doors, and asked every line cook and waitress. They looked at me like I was there to collect debts.
Each time I struck out, I slammed my hand on the bars or booths so hard my palm went numb. I kept picturing Melissa: teeth gritted, trying to blend, maybe pulling another runner if she thought I was too close. And I couldn’t shake the idea that the Leatherbacks weren’t far behind. Every time a pickup rolled past, I clocked the plates. I watched the mirrors, expecting black helmets and turtle patches to materialize behind me. Paranoia’s an ugly thing, but it keeps you alive.
By nine o’clock, I’d run out of obvious, and I was starting to lose my grip. Sweat soaked through the collar of my shirt, and every time my phone buzzed—club calls, Damron, even Seneca—I ignored it. I knew what they’d say. They’d say let it go, she’s not worth the trouble, just wait for her to crawl back or get picked up by the turtles. If I slowed down long enough to listen, maybe I’d agree.
But there was one place I hadn’t tried. The Nipple Tip.
If you ever needed to disappear in Los Alamos, the Nipple Tip was the first and last stop. It was a bar made entirely of bad decisions: the windows painted black, the bouncer a gorilla on a cocktail of steroids and disability checks, the regulars the sort of crowd that even the Leatherbacks hesitated to muscle. The sign out front was a dead neon tit,flickering like an SOS, and even from the parking lot you could feel the rumble of bass and the promise of something broken inside.
I killed the engine and let the silence settle for a beat. My hands were shaking, and I realized I hadn’t eaten in a day. The sky was blue-black, the air so dry it made my teeth hurt. I thumbed my knife open and shut, just to feel something steady.
Inside, it was what you’d expect: bodies packed tight, the scent of sweat, beer, and desperation thick enough to choke on. There were two pool tables, neither with a full set of balls. A girl danced on a strip of duct tape meant to pass for a stage, her eyes flat and dead. Above her, a shark jaw hung from the ceiling, duct-taped into place. The bartender watched me over the glass he was polishing, then looked away quick. He’d seen my cut, knew what it meant.
I scanned the room, every instinct tuned to red alert. Melissa wasn’t at the bar, or by the pool table, or in the huddle by the dartboard. For a second, I thought I’d wasted my last lead, that she’d somehow slipped past me and was already halfway to Colorado or dead in a ditch somewhere.
Then I saw her.
She was at the far end of the bar, a bottle in one hand, staring down a guy twice her size who was leaning a little too close. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore my old club jacket—still streaked with blood from the night before. Her left cheek was swollen, maybe from a hit, maybe just from life. She looked tired and mean and fucking beautiful.
I almost smiled. Then I remembered what happened to people who got too soft.
