I hope it doesn’t end up on television. I always wonder who those idiots are who actually run away from the police. Well, now they’re us.
“I’m not leaving you,” I tell him. “And I already told you, Iowa is out of the picture.”
“I’ll shoot you.” He jams the gun in my ribs. Numbing pain spreads across the area. I don’t flinch.
“You won’t.” I say calmly. “You love me.”
“Fuck!” he kicks the dashboard with his long leg, unable to contain his boiling frustration. “Cockburn, I don’t want you to be locked up for life. Please, please,” he begs, gluing his palms together, the gun clasped between them. “Pull over and let them take you. They’ll take care of Godfrey. I’ll tell them I killed Seb myself. Please, Prescott.”
“No.”
He grows quiet for a moment, rolling his lower lip in his fingers as he always does when he thinks.
“I’ll kill myself.” He suddenly aims the gun at the base of his throat, just under his Adam’s apple, which is decorated with dancing flames and laughing demons. “Do it, Cockburn. I won’t ask again.”
“Guns are for pussies,” I hiss his words back at him, not even sparing him a glance, my focus solely on the road ahead. “You’ll never kill yourself. Let alone with a gun.”
We’re riding deeper into the dense woods. What woods? Who the hell knows? I have no idea where we are, only that we’re heading north. Shit. If I accidentally wandered into Yosemite Park, I’d never know how to get out of there. Finally, Beat pulls the gun away from his neck and shakes his head.
“What are you doing, Baby-Cakes?”
“I have no idea.” My tears make another frustrating cameo. “But I’d like to find out with you by my side.”
Rubbing his knuckles against his cheek, he exhales loudly. I silently pray for him to come up with a plan, any plan, that can get us out of the woods.
“Break back south. We’ll look for somewhere residential. Gotta ditch this car and find another.”
Veering out of the woods, we get back on a highway, its lanes divided by a long set of tall trees. We’re heading south, flashing by a row of police cars making their way north, presumably to try and find us. Soon, we stumble upon a real gem. It’s a small town, deserted, or at the very least not fully occupied. Darkness engulfs us, unlit by city lights, and it takes us exactly three minutes to dump the Camaro in a swamp and break into a white Kia Soul. Talk about keeping a low profile. There’s an unwritten rule somewhere that you can’t purchase a Kia Soul unless you’re between the ages of forty and eighty or have at least three whiny kids in the backseat.
Nate sighs in relief when he slides into the driver’s seat and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, relishing the feeling of space between his legs and the pedals. I bet it’s a lot nicer for him than the Corvette or the Camaro.
“I’m going to ask once again. Do you still want to go through with Godfrey, or do you want us to drive straight to SFO and board the first plane out of this goddamned country? Forget about Vallejo. We can always come back when shit cools down.”
I fall back against my seat and fold my hands over my lap. I know what he wants to hear. He wants to hear that we’re getting out of here as long as we can. If we still can. The more time we waste, the greater our chances of getting caught.
But I can’t have Godfrey walking around free and happy, and I definitely can’t leave without knowing what happened to my brother. Life wouldn’t be worth living that way.
“He still has a piece of my soul,” I say, not daring to lift my eyes to see what’s in his. “And my brother is the only reason I didn’t give up on life.”
There’s a brief silence before he nods.
“Then let’s get them.”
Archer got Sebastian’s head, the hourglass and most importantly—the message.
Godfrey’s smarter, or at the very least, more aware of our abilities, than Seb was. I know that because his Danville mansion is crowned by guards. And not just any guards. Pigs with pink, alcohol-swollen faces and tattoos inked on their foreheads.
The Aryan Brotherhood.
Ten, maybe twelve, brothers lean against their bikes and vans, arms crossed, watching the plush neighborhood through narrow eyes. They’re waiting for us, no doubt. Godfrey figured it’d be nice to kill two birds with one stone.
They’re the stone—we’re the birds.
Archer lives in a European-looking mansion, rising from loose gravel. It looks like it was freshly planted by evil, watered by fear and grown into something dark and dangerous, standing out like a sore thumb against the California landscape. The light in his front terrace is on. He’s home. I know where he lives because I’ve had to visit him a few times since we got out, mainly to deliver him drug-related shit. I never dabbled in drugs, but on occasion, when his contact people in Stockton weren’t able to make it, I’d do him a solid and move stuff from point A to point B.