“To make sure you aren’t dead, of course. Got big plans tonight?” I can almost see the prick wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t forget my bir—” I hang up, not giving a shit about his birthday and wondering how a thirty-year-old man could still expect presents and well wishes—especially from someone like me.
I follow Saylor into one of the back bedrooms that has a window seat. She sits, looking out across the yard, then up at the darkening sky. I’m content with just standing here and staring at her, but I’m sure she is fixing to start asking questions. I just hope they are ones I can answer.
“You said those men wanted revenge. What did you do?” I walk up behind her, standing close but not allowing our bodies to touch.
“I handled business.”
She lets out a small laugh and shakes her head. “Let me guess, it’s confidential.” I let my silence answer for me. She doesn’t push further and I start to relax, knowing she won’t always be this easy to pacify, but thankful that she is right now.
“You should sleep. I have some calls to make.” I don’t wait for an answer as I leave her and walk around the house, then through the yard to familiarize myself with the place. After I’m comfortable with my knowledge of the layout, I return to the shed, where my bike is hidden.
In my saddlebag, everything is a weapon. From a tool to a gun, I have it all. Today, one of my homemade creations will serve a better purpose than just a weapon. I pull out the lock that is tied inside of a bandana and replace the broken lock on the shed door. Now that my loose ends are tied up, there is only one thing left to do. I light a smoke, lean against the shed, and call Nationals.
“I see you’re still alive.” What the hell was it with the doubt?
“I see you and Shady think alike.”
“I need you here by Friday.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line disconnects and the conversation is over before half of my cigarette has been smoked. It took less than a minute for my club to do nothing more than give me another job. Some days I can’t help but feel like just a number. But as I look down at the 1% patch on my cut, I know that it doesn’t matter how I feel. It only matters who I am. And tonight, just like every other night of my life, I am only one thing. Sinner’s Creed.
—
The only piece of furniture in the house is an old couch that sits in the living room. I’d returned to find Saylor sitting there writing in her diary. She was so absorbed by what she was writing that it took her a while to notice me. Even then, it’s like she could sense me before she saw me.
She asked me to lay with her on the couch, so I did. Now I lay here in the darkness with nothing but the sound of her breathing filling the room. Until I hear the growing sound of pipes.
Blood runs cold through my veins as I strain to hear what direction they are coming from. I know they are coming back to find me. They likely had people at each end of the road, waiting to see what direction I went. Since I never left, they know I’m here somewhere, and if they’re smart, this will be the first place they look.
The sound grows louder as headlights dance across the wall in front of me. There is no time to call for backup. Even if there was, there isn’t anyone within a hundred-mile radius. All I can do now is hide and hope that they leave. I place my hand over Saylor’s mouth. I feel her tense beneath me then immediately relax at the sound of my voice.
“It’s me. I want you to crawl to the hallway. Don’t make a sound.” She nods and slips off the couch, crawling in the direction of the hallway. I grab our bags and follow her, then stand and grab her hand before leading her into the back room we were in earlier.
I pull open the closet door and usher her into the tiny space. I place her directly behind me, pull both my guns from my cut and wait. I can feel Saylor’s hands gripping the back of my cut, hanging on for dear life. I let her touch power my need to protect her and fuel my anger. I’ll kill any motherfucker that I see, just to keep her safe.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sounds around me. The only thing I hear is the steady beat of my heart and the hammering of hers until the back window on the door is busted open. They’re in the kitchen. Footsteps . . . three sets. The voices are hushed at first, and then become louder. They are amateurs, likely men who have no direct ties to the man I killed. If they were personally affected, they would know me. And they would know to treat each step they take as if it were their last.
“Nobody’s here, man. The shed is locked up tight, no sign of forced entry on the house. Let’s just get the hell outta here.”
Fear. If I couldn’t hear it in his voice, I could smell it on him the moment he stepped into the room. I keep my guns trained on the center of the door, ready for them to open it. But footsteps descend and soon, the sound of three bikes leaving is echoing through the night.