Nobody did.
The courier watched all of this with the casual interest of a man watching a dog fight from behind bulletproof glass. He checked his watch, then headed for the door.
Damron called after him. "Tell Cutler we accept. Trial at Stone Lake. Sunset tomorrow."
The courier nodded, didn’t even blink, and vanished into the cold.
The room exploded—plans, insults, threats, strategies. Everyone is trying to solve the problem by shouting it into submission. Damron barked orders, divided the room into jobs: weapons, recon, medical, and cleanup. Seneca stood and pulled me aside, out onto the balcony where the wind cut through leather and bone alike.
"You ever kill a man in a fair fight?" he asked.
I looked him in the eye. "Depends on how you define fair."
He laughed, once. "You’re gonna need every dirty trick you ever learned. Saint doesn’t stop. Not even when he’s dead."
I nodded, feeling the weight settle in my chest.
Melissa found me again, fingers clawed into my sleeve, her face set hard as iron.
"I’m not going to watch you die," she said. "I’ll run before I let that happen. I’ll disappear so deep even the devil won’t find me."
I shook my head. "If I win, you’re free. If I lose, you’re safe. That’s the deal."
She punched my arm, hard enough to hurt. "That’s not a fucking deal. That’s just two ways of losing."
I caught her fist, kissed the knuckles, tasted salt and sweat and the promise of something better.
"It’s all I’ve got," I said.
She let her hand drop, then leaned in, her forehead pressed to mine. "Then make it count," she whispered. "Make him hurt."
I promised her I would, but inside, I wasn’t sure who I was really promising it to.
By the time the sun set, the clubhouse was a beehive—everyone prepping for war, but no one was sure which side was bringing the nukes.
I went to my room, found Melissa asleep on the mattress, one hand curled under her cheek, the other draped protectively across her stomach. I sat beside her, careful not to wake her, and watched the rise and fall of her breath. I wondered if it would be the last night I ever saw her, or the first night of something new.
Either way, the morning was going to suck.
I closed my eyes, counted the scars on my body, and tried to remember which ones had ever healed.
The answer was none of them.
But I’d learned to live with the pain.
***
I pushed open the storage room door with my shoulder and pulled her in behind me, shutting out the world for a second. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the sweat-stale tang of forgotten liquor. Racks of vodka and tequila boxed us in, cases of club t-shirts and hats stacked to the ceiling. It was the only place in the building where nobody would look for us. Or, if they did, it meant I’d already lost.
I leaned against the wall and let my head thump back against the plaster. Melissa stood in the only patch of open floor, arms wrapped tight around her chest. She looked like she wanted to bolt, or punch me, or both. I watched her a minute, waiting for the hurricane to break.
"You really gonna do this?" she said, voice soft but with an edge that could slice bread. "You really gonna let Saint turn you into dog food?"
"If it keeps you safe, yeah," I said. I kept it cool, but my hands were shaking—just a little, just enough.
She laughed, a single dry bark. "You think he's gonna stop at beating you? He doesn't just win, Augie. He makes you regret ever thinking you had a shot."
I shrugged, then stepped close enough that I could smell the sleep still tangled in her hair. "I know. That’s why I have to beat him."
