I holstered the Glock, smoothed my jacket, and headed for the bathroom. “You didn’t see shit,” I told the clerk, who nodded so hard I thought his head would pop off.
Behind the steel door, Melissa waited.
“It’s over,” I said.
But we both knew that was a lie.
The moment I stepped out from the bathroom with Melissa tucked at my back, I knew Rex hadn’t left. He was waiting, perched on the edge of the snack aisle, eyes slick with fury and that uniquely Leatherback brand of mania. The station clerk was nowhere to be seen—probably hiding behind the bulletproofed lottery ticket stand, praying for divine intervention or at least a quick end.
“You just had to make this fucking difficult,” Rex said, and the way he rolled his shoulders reminded me of a pit bull right before it tears your throat out. His knuckles were white on the hilt of that switchblade, flicking it open and shut, open and shut, the steel winking under the dirty fluorescents.
“You’re the one waiting around,” I told him, voice bone dry. I felt the Glock cold and ready on my hip, but there’s a kind of code in this world—a last chance to finish it with fists and blades before things go full ballistic.
He didn’t bother with another warning. Just came at me, fast and low, using the endcap of corn nuts for cover. The first punch was a feint; the real danger was the blade, arcing for my gut. I sidestepped, clipped his wrist, but not clean enough—the tip of the blade grazed my shirt and caught flesh just above the beltline.
I grunted and pivoted, driving my elbow into his face. Cartilage crunched, and Rex reeled back, howling. He wiped his nose and stared at the blood on his fingers, then smiled like he’d just won the fucking lottery.
"I’m gonna fillet you,” he said, and launched again.
We crashed into the drink cooler, plastic bottles shattering and spraying sticky blue Powerade everywhere. My back hit the plexiglass, and for a split second I saw my own reflection: bloody, wild-eyed, grinning like a lunatic. Rexlanded a punch square in my ribs—stars burst behind my eyelids. I slammed my heel into his knee and twisted; he buckled, but didn’t let go of the blade.
That was when the clerk, who’d been cowering behind the register, piped up with a little high-pitched squeal. “Please, don’t—don’t—” Then he ducked back down, hands over his ears.
Rex took advantage of the distraction. He jammed the blade up under my jaw, so close I could feel the cold metal against my pulse. I let him think he had me. Then I drove my forehead into his nose, hard enough to knock him cross-eyed. Blood jetted and painted the fridge behind us. He stumbled, but this time he dropped the knife.
I kicked it down the aisle, then shoved Rex into the clerk’s workstation. He grabbed the cash register for balance, and with a scream, he flung the whole thing at me. It caught me in the shoulder, numbed my arm, but I didn’t slow down. I grabbed a glass jar of jerky from the counter and shattered it across his head.
Rex blinked, staggered, then pulled a new surprise: a snub-nose revolver from behind his back.
I dove, grazing the floor with my chin as the first shot tore into the Lucky Strikes display behind me. He fired again, and the ceiling tiles exploded, raining dust. Thethird shot was a dud, or maybe he just missed—I didn’t give a fuck.
I drew the Glock and squeezed the trigger.
The sound in that little room was biblical. Melissa screamed from the bathroom, a thin animal noise. The glass behind Rex spiderwebbed, and he dropped the revolver, clutching his chest. He looked down, blinked stupidly, and sagged against the cigarette display.
He slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood like a kid’s finger-paint project.
My own blood was dripping down my stomach now, warm and sticky. I pressed a hand to the wound, hissing between my teeth. The pain was white-hot and sharp, not fatal, but enough to make me shaky.
The clerk peeked over the counter, eyes wide and mouth slack. “Holy shit. You—you shot him.”
I leveled the Glock at him. “You gonna be a problem, friend?”
He shook his head, hair flopping like a wet mop.
“Good. Forget what you saw. There’s a hundred in my pocket—take it, tell the cops you hid the whole time. That’s your story, yeah?”
He nodded.
I shoved the Glock back in my waistband and lurched toward the bathroom, blood still seeping from my side.Melissa was huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. She looked up at me, mascara streaming down her face, and in that second, I saw the entire last thirty-six hours written in her eyes: exhaustion, terror, the flicker of something like hope.
“We gotta move,” I said, voice low. “Now.”
She stood, shaking, and I took her hand. We stepped over Rex’s body, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’d just seen the second coming. The clerk was already at the register, stuffing my hundred into his apron.
Outside, the night was heavy and absolute. I forced myself onto the bike, the pain in my gut now a living thing. Melissa climbed on behind me, arms tight around my waist. I fired up the engine. It sputtered, then roared.
We vanished into the dark, leaving the gas station glowing behind us like a bruise that would never heal.
