Chapter Twenty-Four
AYDA
Sending the SOS out through the phone-finding app was a risky one. Slater had walked me through it a dozen times. After the last couple of confrontations with our enemies, and after having been isolated, it had been a good call. Now, I hoped this worked as quickly as Slater had said it would because I knew they were up to their eyeballs in shit, too—a whole other kind than we were experiencing.
I stayed quiet as Drew drove, hating that we couldn’t talk, that everything we said and did was being scrutinized.
My eyes moved between Drew and the mirror that reflected Walsh’s face. The mayor had his hand pressed against his bullet wound, his face creased in pain, but it was hard to avoid the smug smile that curved the corner of his mouth when he dropped his head back on the leather and stared up at the roof of his car. I was sure he knew what was about to go down.
My heart was flip-flopping between fear and impotent rage. I felt so helpless.
Like Chester Cortez, Travis Gatlin had a mean streak as wide as Texas. Unlike Chester, Trigger was, in all actuality, batshit insane in the most clinical sense of the word. The memory of him shooting his half-brother Jacob, without somuch as a blink of an eye made my stomach roll. Travis was volatile, feral, and hungry for something he couldn’t see. He was searching for that high that would sustain him. He had nothing to lose, no conscience to speak of, and was a vindictive son of a bitch to boot.
We turned onto FM fifty-five and saw four Nav bikes and riders sitting on either side of the road, on the shoulders, like sentries, just as Travis had promised.
Four.
“If I remember rightly, you guys never travel anywhere in big numbers because you prefer to slip into the background and shoot people in the back of the head rather than fight them up front.”Those were Drew’s words spoken to Travis on that fateful night at Rusty’s, and I remembered them then. Four, we could probably handle.
I glanced at Drew, noted the rigid line of his jaw, and hoped to God he had a plan.
“Our escort,” Walsh started and broke off to drag in an exaggerated panting breath that ended in a sardonic laugh.
Drew’s face was still, his eyes drifting to each rider and their bikes. Ever the tactician, he was fascinating to watch. I just had to wonder how many more times we were going to have to see each other this way, on the frontline, about to go to war.
“This is too rehearsed,” Drew muttered in a barely-there whisper, his attention jumping from Nav to Nav. “It’s been planned for a while. All of it.”
“You should have been dead a long time ago,” Walsh croaked through his pain.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Drew sighed.
Once the Navs spotted us, the lead rider, who was sitting atop of a Chopper, turned his bike around, and the others stayed in place until Drew had driven through the middle of them. They formed a diamond formation around the vehicle wewere in: one up front, two at the side of us, and one at the back.
Drew never stopped eyeing every rider around him, his forearms tensing as he twisted his hands around the steering wheel over and over again.
He was right about it being planned. You didn’t have to know the rules these guys set in place to see that, and when they eased us from the road to a dirt turnoff, the building that sat at the end of it brought another round of ice to my blood
A warehouse that was almost identical to the one in Babylon we’d blown up.
They weren’t unusual in this part of Texas. They popped up on the horizon no matter what direction you went in. This one, however, was too familiar, and it held a foreboding that sent chills down my spine, aches through the long-healed scars, and my hand to squeeze Drew’s thigh before I could think about what I was doing.
“Drew,” I whispered.
He turned the wheel in the same direction the bikes led him, coming to a stop outside a huge entrance that was only partially lifted from the ground. Drew wasted no time in reaching out for my hand and squeezing it tightly, leaning in closer as he looked all around.
“Whatever happens, Ayda, do what I say.” His eyes found mine, his face stony and serious, the look he gave me warm—contradicting the rigid form of his shoulders and jaw. “Do you understand me? No heroics. Not this time. No trying to save anybody but yourself and…” He drifted off, swallowing hard.
I nodded, the action followed by a mumbled verbal acceptance of his request. Fear should have been the most prevalent reaction, but that had begun to fade as we’d neared the building. I’d somehow managed to file that away and replace it with trepidation and a small bubble of anger that simmered under the surface. Staring up at the red brick andmortar, holding Drew’s hand, a small mantra started playing in the back of my head like a whisper. One I was determined to ignore for now.
“What now?” I asked quietly.
He raised my hand to kiss the back of it, looking up at me through heavy eyes. “Wait here. It’s me they’ll want to speak to first.” Then he turned back to look at Walsh. “You lay a finger on her, and the next bullet hole in your body will be straight through your head.”
Drew left me no time for anyone to respond. He opened the driver’s door and climbed out, his hand on the roof to pull himself up before he slammed the door shut and walked around to one of the Navs who had now jumped off his bike. For a short time, it was just one and one, and Drew was walking closer, looking more confident than I knew he felt. He hitched up his jeans, expanded his chest, and walked to the hood of the car, glaring at the Nav closest to him. He looked like he was about to say something when the other three drew closer, each one drawing out their guns, aiming them at Drew’s head, forcing him to stop in his tracks and raise his hands above his head.
My whole body leaned forward at the scene. I scanned the men around him, swallowing the groan when Walsh let out a coughed snort of laughter from the back seat.
“You brought this on yourself, Ayda. Messing with trash like Tucker.”
