25. Isaac

CHAPTER 25

ISAAC

The gunshots are still ringing in my ears as I kick the glass terrace door open and rush out. My eyes are seeing the hallway in front of me one minute and Yuri Solovey's body crumpled on the floor with blood pooling from the hole in his forehead and chest the next.

Two shots, execution style. One in the head and one in the heart.

A fresh memory I can't shake off just yet.

My own heart is a drumbeat thundering against my ribs. Sweat slicks my skin under the white crisp uniformed shirt I stole from the waiter who's probably still tied up in the utility room in nothing but his underwear.

The security guard rounding the corner is an obstacle—a minor one. He shouts, points his gun at me. I don't know if he works for the hotel or belongs to Solovey's posse. I don't want to take a risk either way. My hand is steady, my decision instant. I shoot him in the foot, an apology without words. His cry fractures the air as I bolt past him and to the nearest exit to the stairs.

I have a plan I manufactured behind Dallas's back and I'm following this plan now.

I'm sorry , I whisper in the privacy of my mind. Sorry for the lie. But you lied to me too, handsome. It's only fair.

The stairwell is a concrete echo chamber for my desperation. Each flight descended is a prayer, each landing cleared, a stolen breath.

I burst out several floors below, my lungs burning with exertion and fear. Without slowing, I whip out the phone and dial Dallas. The call is brief, a few terse sentences that convey only the essentials: Run. Now. The trust I have in Dallas battles the lick of doubt writhing in my gut.

Could he turn on me?

Could he still be working undercover?

Could he give me up to the FBI to save his own skin?

The thought is a poison, but I force it down, bury it under layers of hope and necessity as I keep on running, keep on following my plan.

Next, I slip into the hotel's laundry room. My waiter's uniform—my disguise—is stripped away and discarded in haste. In the drier, I find another disguise in the form of someone else's clothes: jeans and a T-shirt. They're nondescript, anonymous. A little loose, but perfect.

With swift movements, I change, shedding my former identity like a snake sloughs its skin.

The scent of detergent that clings to me is a complete opposite of the stench of blood that seems to follow me wherever I go. I shove the gun into the waistband of the jeans, its weight a constant reminder of what I am, what my endgame is all about. The fabric of the T-shirt stretches over it, hiding the shape, but not the reality. Each step away from the laundry room is heavy, weighted by the uncertainty of what comes next.

A trash chute comes into view as I continue down the hallway. It's an appropriate place to discard the gun. But no, the weapon stays. Who knows what waits for me downstairs? I surely hope the plan works, but if it doesn't… The gun is my only way out.

The parking garage greets me with the stench of exhaust and the hushed symphony of idling engines. It's a gray windowless space—a true concrete jungle.

My shoes pound against the pavement as I sprint past the endless rows of vehicles, their metallic surfaces glinting under the harsh parking lights. Somewhere in the back of my head, I can hear the chaotic noise of the hotel, the one I created, following me like a predator. The distant screams and shouts bounce off the concrete walls and push me forward. Push me away from this mess.

My eyes are scanning the space, looking for the one face of the person I know will never leave me. The sight of him, leaning against the motorcycle with that familiar scar cutting across his cheek, sparks relief in my chest fierce enough to rival the panic clawing at its edges.

"Anyone following you?" Jeremy asks as I close the distance between us.

"Don't think so. At least not yet."

Our hands clasp, and for a moment, the chaos fades. In this grasp lies the unspoken language of brotherhood, of shared nights bleeding into lawless dawns.

"Last ride together, Blade," Jeremy says, handing me the helmet. There's a hint of something like regret in his words, but we don't have the time to analyze our relationship now or ask unnecessary questions. Things have been decided a long time ago. All we can do is act.

"It had to come to an end, J," I tell him, slipping the helmet on. "You know it had to. All great things do."

He nods, clapping me on the back, then yanking me to his massive chest and burying me into a bear hug. Years of gratitude compressed into seconds.

"You're a damn good man, Jeremy," I whisper as we pull apart. "Don't forget to get the money tomorrow and take care of your sister. She needs you more than anything."

"You take care of yourself too, Isaac."

The helmet muffles sounds and thoughts as I lower the visor and I throw my leg over the bike. The engine roars and the beast comes to life beneath me. One last jerk of the chin to Jeremy, slinking into the shadows of the lot, and I'm out.

The garage zips past me, its form flickering at my back like the ghosts of memories I'm ready to leave behind.

Asphalt rushes below. The road ahead is a ribbon unwinding with reckless promise.

As I look through the dirty window, I watch the desert dust dance in the bright Nevada light for a few seconds. Then my gaze returns to the duffel bag spilling its guts of green bills before me. I sit cross-legged on an old faded blanket that smells of mountains and time gone by. Most of the emergency money I stashed at the cabin is now gone. Half of it is buried in the spot in the desert only Jeremy and I know. The rest of it—that's in front of me—will be spent on securing a flight to somewhere far from here—Panama, where the rules bend like palm trees in the coastal wind.

From there, Dallas and I will need to figure it out. But when you're being pursued by all possible law enforcement agencies and countless organizations outside the law, money isn't the biggest worry. It's keeping your head attached to your body. Especially if the cartel gets involved too.

So if I have to use my past one last time to pull some strings, be it. But before that happens, we need to get out of here.

The zipper rasps shut, the sound harsh in the uninhabited building that once was a promise of a bright future. Now it's empty, a carcass for the desert fauna to hide. Today it's not the critters or the rattlesnakes. Today, it's Dallas and me. Today, this is our hiding spot until it's time to go meet Arlo, Jeremy's referral with the plane.

Minutes drag their feet as I wait for Dallas. My watch ticks treason against my pulse, every beat a thud of nerves. Arlo won't wait. Time waits for no man, least of all two fugitives trying to flee the country. Every second we stay here is a risk. And with Dallas being this late, the weight in my chest only gets heavier.

What if this was all a game for him? From the very beginning?

I want to call him, to hear his voice erasing the doubt, but our phones are gone—a pact made even before the aftermath of Solovey's fall. We ditched the burners to make the law guessing, guessing and looking. And now I am blind and deaf to Dallas's fate.

My mind spirals down darker paths. I'm certain it's the bitter pill of betrayal, one I've tasted before. Or worse, death—a silent thief that came to claim the half of my soul I never knew was his for the taking. I clench my fists, nails biting into palms, the pain a feeble anchor in the storm of thoughts.

Damn you, Dallas. You better be alive, or I swear I'll find you in hell myself.

The next time I approach the window, the sun dips even lower in the sky, painting it in shades of blood and rust. The clock's hand on my watch creeps toward the hour of reckoning, and I'm left with a heart racing at the edge of this dark abyss—too afraid to jump yet too terrified to back away.