3. Isaac

CHAPTER 3

ISAAC

Dust swirls outside, a gritty haze that clings to the windshield as Jeremy pushes the truck forward while I'm next to him, riding shotgun through Arizona's barren embrace. The landscape is an ocean of scorched earth, where the sun reigns unchallenged. In the distance, the mountains rise up, and I prepare myself for the inevitable, the portion of this trip I don't like.

Behind us, are three more trucks and we've been driving for hours. No stopping. No bullshit.

Las Vegas is just an out-of-focus spot somewhere on the map now. A mirage. A place we can't think of right now.

"Stick close," I murmur into the radio, my voice blending with the rumble of the engine. "It's gonna get bumpy soon."

"Copy, boss," Ricky's static-riddled voice comes back.

"That Santino's batshit crazy," Jeremy grunts, his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the sky bleeds orange and purple splotches against the dying day.

In the side mirror, the second truck looms—a large lumbering shape with Ricky at the wheel. His silhouette is a dark smudge in the stream of the setting sun. Besides him, another form sits.

I can't make out his features, but my mind drifts to him anyway. He's a riddle I can't quite solve. I don't know anything about him except the fact he's the first man who makes me feel good, makes me want to be better, makes me want something different. His question from the other day suddenly echoes in my skull.

What are we doing here?

This. Us. What is this?

What is this really?

A fantasy flits through my thoughts—of a distant island where the past doesn't matter, where names and bloodlines dissolve into the sea foam.

Can't run away, Blade , I immediately think to myself. The name I've been given is like a cruel reminder of what I've become. An island would be a dream, but it's just that—a dream.

People count on me here, their lives twisted up with mine in a knot too tight to untangle.

The tires crunch over uneven ground as the desert gives way to a rocky incline and eventually a narrowing pass. Rugged walls rise up on either side like the silent guardians of the road we take. It's here, in this claustrophobic stretch of wilderness, that vulnerability creeps in, wearing the same cloak of dusk that settles over the land.

"Keep your eyes sharp," I tell Jeremy, though my own gaze lingers on the mirror, on the truck behind us, on the space where I know Hawk should be. I crave the sight of him, the reassurance that he's there.

"Always do, boss," Jeremy replies, his hand steady on the wheel. "You know it."

But I'm not talking about the route anymore.

My thoughts are fogged up by Hawk again, with the impossible idea of escape. Still, the knowledge that I'm shackled to this life by chains of loyalty, fear, and responsibility for all these people is present. It never goes away.

"Blade?" Jeremy's voice pulls into reality.

"Yeah?" I respond, my focus snapping back to the present, to the task at hand, to the bumpy road beneath us, to the edge of the cliff on my right.

"You sure this is the right way?"

"I'm sure. Keep driving."

We press on, probably another thirty minutes at turtle speed because we can't go any faster.

"How's Jessica holding up?" I ask after a while.

"Fine," Jeremy grunts, a tinge of something like pain coloring his tone. "She's damn strong, you know? And that suite..." He exhales, and I can tell he's trying to find gratitude amid the worry. "It's more than we could've asked for. She's never stayed at the penthouse."

"Good," I say flatly, my voice betraying nothing of the storm in me. She didn't deserve what happened to her. This life, it's a vortex. It swallows you whole, spares no one. "I'm glad she's enjoying it. She can stay however long she likes."

One penthouse less. One penthouse more. Georgie won't notice. Besides, it's a family business. I have just as much claim to everything he does.

If Maurice keeps his mouth shut.

Ahead, the road narrows even more, snaking its way toward the mountain's gaping mouth. Just like Santino promised. We all ease off the gas, slowing down to a crawl.

"Looks like it's about to fall apart," Jeremy comments, eyeing the timeworn tunnel entrance. "These big rigs might be too much for it."

"Sturdier than it looks," I reply, though my pulse thrums with the lie. The structure is ancient, a relic from a time when brute force was the answer to any obstacle. It's hidden so far away in the mountains that no one cares to blow it up—no one's stupid or desperate enough to come here. Except us.

"Let's hope you're right." Skepticism lines Jeremy's words, but he guides our truck forward anyway. He's a loyal soldier marching into the unknown.

He stops right before the entrance, engine idling like the heartbeat of a great beast. I survey the line of trucks in the mirror. They're filled with more than just cargo–they carry our future, fragile and poised on the edge of destruction. One wrong move and Toro's wrath will be unleashed on us and it's the last thing I want.

"Let's go," I command.

One by one, we move, tires crunching on the uneven ground. The last light of day is swallowed by the mountain's shadow. With each yard gained, freedom seems both closer and farther away. The earth rumbles dangerously at some point and I find myself thinking about how it would feel to be buried alive if the tunnel falls. But the mountain is kind. It holds as we creep forward, through the darkness. As the other trucks follow, their headlights blink in and out one by one, snuffed out by the curve in the road.

"How far did you say to the border after this?" Jeremy asks over the rumble of engines and the scrape of tires against the rough-hewn ground.

"Less than a mile."

"Can't wait to get out of this damn hole," he grits through clenched teeth, his eyes flicking between the mirror and the treacherous path ahead as the crumbles of earth and dust drop from above.

"Almost there," I lie. A minor deception to keep him on his toes.

He'll figure it out soon enough, but by then we'll be free. I hope.

But the darkness doesn't seem to want to let us go and Jeremy curses under his breath occasionally. I'm certain some of those barbed words—if not most—are meant for me. Then, there's the faintest gleam—the promise of an end.

"Fucking A!" Jeremy barks out, smacking the steering wheel.

Our truck noses through the tunnel's last stretch, angling itself into the waning daylight. The sunset paints against the sky, brushstrokes over the rugged desert landscape. Striking hues of fiery red and purple.

"Fuckin' Santino wasn't bluffing," Jeremy cackles triumphantly as he feeds more gas to our beast. The engine responds with a roar from under the hood.

I steal a glance at the side mirror just to check if Hawk's truck is still tailing us. Ricky is unnervingly close, probably wants to get out of the tunnel just as fast as Jeremy.

There's this moment of absolute calm as if nature itself wants me to see it, to hear it, to soak it all in.

And then the world explodes into chaos. Figures spill from their hiding spots like ants from a kicked hill. Shouts ricochet off the rocks.

"Motherfuck—" Jeremy slams on the brakes, and the truck lurches, metal groaning in protest.

Uniforms.

Guns.

Bulletproof vests.

ATF.

Those three letters flash in front of my eyes as my heart thunders against my ribs.

We're sitting ducks, cornered, with no way out except back into the tunnel. On foot. Because trucks are blocking it.

And then I remember prison.

I'm not going back. I'd rather die , I think to myself reaching for my gun, its familiar coldness only a small comfort. I don't like guns in general, but I can't really opt out of using them—or trading them—if I want to survive.

"Keep your head do—!" Jeremy yells, but the last bit of his sentence is swallowed by the gunfire.

I'm not sure where the bullet comes from. I'm not even sure if it's one of my guys. They know better than to start a fight they can't win.

Or is it some trigger-happy lawman who saw something that wasn't there?

Here's what I know: gunfire always begets more gunfire. Sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes people die. And that's not what I want. That's never the answer.

Unfortunately, it's too late.

Someone started it. Someone lit this fuse. And there's going to be a response. And it comes from the tunnel.

I look back. Ricky's there. But Hawk? Nowhere in sight.

My chest feels tight, tight and hot all of a sudden. Never mind the mayhem that's now unveiling around us. Uniforms swarm in, and for a moment, I'm frozen. The world narrows to the sight of badges glinting like false coins.

Can't go to prison.

No. Been there. Done that. Not doing it again.

Next to me, Jeremy discharges his weapon with a calm precision, honed by years and years of training and necessity.

Then my own instinct kicks in, muscle memory guiding my hand as I aim through the shattered window, the crack of my shots lost amidst the racket.

I don't aim for anyone's heart. I just aim for the hand holding an answering gun. Or a leg.

The truck trembles from bullet strikes while the scent of gunpowder and fear fills the air.

"Fuckers came outta nowhere!" Jeremy spits out and I hear rage mingling with the bitter tang of betrayal in his scream.

This was supposed to be a clean run, no tails, no trouble.

No one except Santino knew I was asking about this route and I didn't tell him when I was going to transport my shipment.

A bullet whizzes by, dangerously close to my cheek.

"Just stay the fuck down, Isaac!" Jeremy orders. He's a better shot than me and I allow him to take the lead on this one and bring my head down, peeking at what's left of the mirror. Another bullet splinters it before I can figure out if Hawk is still hiding in the truck behind us. Or if he made it out.

I feel the hot bite of adrenaline coursing through me as I duck to the floor, the small cramped space in front of my seat.

My heart won't stop racing. I need to remain calm, cold, calculating. Especially right now.

I've survived traps before, danced with death on finer lines than this. But as I peer outside the door again, my gaze searching desperately for a sign of Hawk, I realize this horror that grips me, not for myself, but for him—is the worst kind of horror. Self-destructive.

"Damn it," I hiss, ducking as another volley of gunfire peppers the side of the truck. "Fucking Hawk..."

Jeremy can't hear me. He's too busy warding off the ATF.

I can't sit idle; not when every instinct screams that Hawk is out there, caught in the crossfire. I know he can hold his own. But I'd be better with him by my side.

"Cover me," I shout at Jeremy knocking him on the shoulder.

"Isaac, don't you da—" Jeremy's warning cuts off as the sound of yet another bullet tearing through the truck hits our ears.

"Just do as I fucking say!" I slip to the ground, my back pressed up to the truck, gun at the ready.

I glance toward the tunnel and see Ricky's figure.

Breathe, Isaac. Breathe.

Pain explodes in my abdomen, searing hot and blindingly white. I gasp, stagger, clutching at the fabric of my shirt now blooming red—a dark rose unfurling too rapidly.

"Fuck, fuck," I hear myself mutter, the ground tilting as I lean heavily against the side of the truck. The world sways, reality fracturing at the edges.

Jeremy's voice that comes next is distant like an echo in the void while the fight rages on around us. He's on the other side of the truck. A thought flits through my head. He can't see me . I'm slipping further, falling into an abyss where only pain and darkness wait to embrace me.

The rough ground kisses my cheek. My breaths are ragged, wrapped in agony, each one a crescendo of pain that drowns out the gunfire.

Is this it?

Is this how death really feels?

Hollow and insubstantial.

Through the haze of physical and mental distress, my mind wanders to my people, the ones who look to me for guidance, for protection. My family. Regret washes over me.

"Isaac!" The voice cuts through the fog, sharp and urgent. It's Hawk. His face swims into focus above me, terror pinching his features. There's blood and dirt on his face. But he seems fine. His gun is in his hand as he tries to lift me up, to yank me from the clutches of gravity.

"Can you move?" he pleads through the chaos.

I want to laugh, a harsh sound born from the pit of despair. Move? I can barely feel anything beyond the searing inferno in my gut. "Doesn't... look like it," I manage. The words on my tongue taste like copper and defeat.

His hands are on me then. A lifeline. Something real amidst the abstract painting of my suffering. His fingers fumble with my shirt. "Oh, that's not good… Just stay with me, Isaac. Fuck, just hold on!"

But I'm a ship breaking apart on the rocks, consciousness ebbing away with the blood that pools beneath me—the void is claiming me bit by bit.

I'm adrift in the space between my own slowing down heartbeats, where time stretches thin and blurs at the fringe.

I watch him, watch him through this fog, watch him lock his jaw in determination, watch him stare at me as if there's something he wants to tell me but can't.

I watch him until I can't keep my eyes open anymore. Could be minutes or could be seconds and then somewhere nearby, Hawk's voice says, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Special Agent Dallas Bradley… Badge number 39715!"

Is this a dream?

Am I in hell?

"I have an injured asset," Hawk's voice shouts over the noise of the bullets. "I repeat, I have an injured asset. He needs a doctor. Send a medivac now!"

It's the last thing my mind grasps before the dark claims me. As I succumb to the void, I'm still convinced it's all just a nightmare. And when I wake up, things would be back to normal.