CHAPTER TEN

The dust billowed in the wake of Lazarus's truck, a choking cloud that hung over the rutted dirt road. Each jostle of the vehicle sent a spike of agony through his side, a vicious reminder of the bullet wound just below his ribs. His jaw clenched tight, a growl slipping from between gritted teeth.

"Damn you, Alice," he spat, pressing one hand against the sticky warmth that seeped through his makeshift bandage. The pain was a live thing, an animal clawing at his insides.

The truck's headlights cut a swath through the darkness of the Texas night, illuminating the path that twisted ahead like a serpent through the scrubland. With each passing mile, Lazarus's grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles whitening as he steered closer to retribution.

Eventually, the engine's rumble fell silent as Lazarus brought the truck to a halt. No grace in his movements, he swung the door open, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He stood for a moment, the world around him still save for the spinning of his head.

It had all been going so well.

He’d tracked her to the gas station. Pulled up alongside…

But she had a sixth sense. She’d moved.

And now he was the one suffering.

One breath. Two. Then he forced himself forward. Each step was a battle, his body protesting, demanding surrender. But surrender was not a word that existed in Lazarus’s lexicon. He stumbled, caught himself, and lumbered on. There was no room for weakness now, not when he was so close.

Legacy was a powerful word.

Family. Lineage.

Things that felt as if they were from a bygone era.

He went further, pushed harder. Because he knew what was coming. He could see the writing on the wall.

"Keep moving," he grunted, the words barely audible above the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. His shadow stretched out before him, a dark omen on the path to what needed to be done. There could be no stopping. Not yet.

Lazarus approached the gate. The metal was cold, unyielding beneath his touch. He didn't bother with stealth; his mission left no room for subtlety. With one swift motion, he lifted the latch and pushed through, the gate groaning in protest as it swung open. The path beyond was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by wild brush that clawed at his clothes, snagging fabric and flesh alike.

His boots scuffed the dirt, a steady thrum against the earth as he ascended. Pain flared with each step, a constant companion he had long since learned to endure. Darkness clung to the edges of the road, but Lazarus's eyes remained fixed ahead, where the outline of the farmhouse materialized against the night sky. It stood solitary, an island in a sea of shadow.

The porch loomed, and Lazarus mounted the steps. His breaths were short, ragged gasps that cut through the silence. He paused at the door, listening. A beat, two, then he lashed out with his foot. The door splintered inward, hinges screaming their defiance until they gave way. Gun raised, Lazarus entered the breach.

"Who's there?!" The shout erupted from within, muffled by walls and distance.

Lazarus advanced, his weapon leading the way. Every corner of the room declared itself to his senses—rough-hewn furniture, the lingering scent of wood smoke, the faint rustle of movement somewhere beyond his line of sight. Fear hung in the air, palpable as the dust motes that danced in the light spilling from the shattered doorway. He moved deeper into the house. Only two rooms. He'd built the damn thing after all, hadn't he?

Before they’d taken it.

The bedroom door gave way with a muted thud against the carpeted floor. Lazarus's eyes, two flints in the darkness, assessed the scene – a man and his wife, startled awake, tangled in the sheets of their modest bed. The moonlight slanted across their faces, casting half-shadows that accentuated their terror.

"Please—" the man's voice broke, strangled by the fear clenching his throat.

Lazarus didn't flinch. His finger tightened on the trigger. Once. Twice. The gunshots cracked the night apart, twin thunderclaps that reverberated through the small farmhouse and spilled into the open landscape beyond. Silence rushed back to fill the void they left behind.

The bodies lay still, the finality of their end stark in the moon's cold scrutiny. Blood bloomed across the linen, dark roses unfurling in slow motion. Lazarus stood over them, his chest heaving from exertion and pain, but his heart encased in ice.

He knew the man in the bed, had known him once when such things seemed to matter. But now, recognition did not stir empathy within Lazarus's battered frame. He had chosen this ranch with precision, ensuring no innocent would be caught in the crossfire of his retribution.

Three farms he’d driven past. Eighteen miles.

He’d been in pain, bleeding.

But he’d driven eighteen miles to end up at an appropriate location.

He had a code, and he refused to break it.

His own injuries screamed for attention, but he pushed the pain aside, a mere inconvenience on the path to his ultimate goal. There was more work to be done, and Lazarus was far from finished.

Lazarus turned from the bed, a specter of death in the dimly lit room. He stepped over the fallen lamp, its light extinguished, and made his way to the medicine cabinet. The wood creaked under his weight, a soft protest against the night's violence. His hands, slick with blood, trembled as they reached for the cabinet door.

Inside, bottles and boxes lay in disarray—a chaos of remedies and bandages. His fingers closed around a bottle of disinfectant, the label worn from use. Cotton swabs, gauze pads, tape. Each item landed with a soft thud on the counter, their banality a stark contrast to the scene behind him. Lazarus gritted his teeth against the pain that each movement sent stabbing through his ribs.

The gasp came from his left—a sharp intake of breath that ripped through the silence. He spun, gun raised. The woman on the bed, her body wracked with the convulsions of impending death, eyes wide with the realization of her fate. Another mistake.

"Shh," he breathed, almost a whisper. Her chest heaved, a feeble attempt at life. Lazarus didn't hesitate. One bullet. Two. The mattress absorbed the sounds, muffled thuds that barely stirred the air.

Her body stilled. Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the sound of Lazarus's shallow breaths and the distant hoot of an owl. His grip on the gun loosened, but he did not put it away. Witnesses were liabilities, and liabilities could not be afforded.

He returned to the medicine cabinet, movements methodical, deliberate. The concrete reality of antiseptics and sutures grounded him. There was no room for error, no space for sentiment. Lazarus cleaned his wounds with ruthless efficiency, the sting of alcohol a welcome distraction from the throbbing in his side.

No words escaped his lips now—only the steady rhythm of survival, one breath, one action at the time. The clock on the wall ticked away seconds, indifferent to the lives ended. In the world outside, the wind whispered through the Texas scrub, carrying with it the scent of dust.

Lazarus's fingers worked with practiced ease, wrapping the bandage tight around his ribs. The fabric pressed against the raw wounds, a barrier between his flesh and the rest of the world. Each movement was precise, no wasted motion as he secured the ends. It had to hold. There was no room for slippage—not now.

He leaned back against the cold wall, eyes closing briefly. Inhale. Exhale. Pain lingered beneath his skin, a constant reminder of his mortality. His hand rested on his side, feeling the rise and fall of his breath through the makeshift dressing. The quiet enveloped him, thick as the darkness outside.

Then, the moment passed.

Eyes open. Focus sharp. Lazarus reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone with a slick of blood from his fingertips. He punched in a number, familiar by heart, and brought the device to his ear. The ringtone droned on, once, twice.

"Cleaner," he said. The word echoed in the empty room—a command, an expectation.

"Address?" The voice on the other end was dispassionate, professional.

"Farmhouse off Route 7. Make it disappear." No names. No explanations. They were unnecessary.

"Understood. Anything else?"

"More guns. I'm not finished yet."

"Consider it done."

The call ended with a click. Lazarus slid the phone back into his pocket. The gun still lay within reach, its weight a promise of violence yet to come. Time was slipping away, every second pushing him forward. He rose, body protesting, but the pain only sharpened his resolve.

The hunt wasn't over. Not by far.

Legacy demanded action. Demanded movement.

He didn’t have much time left.