He smiled and turned toward the sound of her voice. “Thank you, Abilene, for everything. The food, the room…for finding me.”
“Oh, hush,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “You looked half-frozen and scared to death. Anyone would’ve done the same.” She hesitated, voice dipping. “You sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Roz is the brother I should’ve had.”
He heard Abilene sniff. “Safe travels, Rick.”
“Take care, man.” A rough, solid hand clapped his shoulder once.
“Thank you, Forrest,” he nodded and got into the passenger seat.
Roz began to massage the back of his neck like he’d always done in the past.
It almost felt normal…until it didn’t.
The hairs on his arms rose again, and he realized it was becoming a tell.
He knew—deep down, as sure as he was breathing—his escape from the Ravens was fleeting.
Someone was coming for him.
No matter how far he ran.
White Ravens
Scar
Thirty goddamn hours on a bus would make a priest want to commit murder. And since he wasn’t even close to that, he was two seconds away from killing anyone who even looked at him wrong.
Too long sitting upright in an uncomfortable seat, listening to a screaming baby, a snoring drunk, and being forced to inhale the sour breath of the guy on the opposite side of the aisle had him ready to snap.
The bus hissed to a stop and the driver mumbled in an exhausted tone, “Chicago terminal.”
Scar stood, and his back cracked like an old gate hinge. His legs ached, his mouth was dry as sandpaper, and his nerves were frayed.
All he wanted now was a long shower, a hot meal, and a room with a soft mattress to dive onto headfirst where he could lie comatose for a week.
But he’d tossed the boosted credit cards, leaving him eighty whole bucks. Not near enough for the prime rib dinner and hotel room he so desperately wanted.
The bitter Chicago wind carried diesel fumes, and the putrid stink of piss wafting from the alleyways. His home welcoming him back in its own nasty, comforting way.
He tugged his hoodie lower, keeping his head down.
After a few blocks, he walked into a Walmart with the last of his stolen reserves and purchased a basic red T-shirt and a pair of black Dickies.
He wasn’t about to show up on the South Side in the wrong colors. Red and black were the blood and bone of the South Side Kings. His blood and bone.
He freshened up in the bathroom, shaved, brushed his teeth, and did his best to scrub the travel off him.
He stood there staring at his reflection—white hair, pale skin, and icy blue eyes—barely recognizing who the fuck was staring back at him.
He looked like a character created by a comic-book artist.
He pressed his palms against the sink, muttering under his breath, “You’re home. You made it. Hard part’s over.”
He stopped at a gas station, bought a cold turkey sandwich, and a thirty-two ounce bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade. The bread was stale, but it was sustenance.
He hailed a cab—vowing to never get on another bus as long as he lived—ignoring the driver’s side-eye at his clothes.
