“What about the fifth person?” she asks as she stands. “And are you sure you have the correct three other people and can you delete the pictures without them knowing and how will you know you get them all and what if they find out and...”
The bell rings and I risk touching her as I lay one finger over her soft lips. She goes absolutely still and it takes massive amounts of self-control not to tunnel my fingers in her hair and press my mouth to hers.
“Breanna?” I say, and it comes out much lower than I had intended.
She licks her lips. My eyes briefly shut as her warm tongue grazes my finger. She turns red and I’m haunted by images of her doing that again, but on purpose and slower. I clear my throat and continue, “Trust me.”
I lower my hand and she breathes out, “I can do that.”
Breanna: What if this first one isn’t a code? What if it’s the cipher?
I lean against the seat of my motorcycle parked on the side of the road. Next to me is a stranded semitruck full of fine Kentucky bourbon. It’s a cold autumn night, which means this winter is going to be a bitch. My cut is on over my zipped-up leather jacket. My fingers are numb as I discarded my gloves so I could text with Breanna.
In the past month, on this same road in the mountains of the Tennessee/North Carolina border, three other rigs not under Terror Security have met the same fate of two blown tires. Those trucks were jacked of their cargo at gunpoint while the driver had been fixing the problem.
With the black night surrounding us and the occasional flash of headlights from passing cars, there’s an eerie sensation to this scenario. My neck itches, like there’s a scope of a high-powered rifle trained on me.
Me: Cipher?
Breanna: The key to the lock. I’m going to take a look at the second code and see what I can do with that and let my mind play on the idea of the other code being a cipher.
This is the first night in two weeks Breanna and I haven’t talked on the phone. I even called last weekend when I was on break, but there’s tension in the air tonight. The foreboding feeling of everything going to hell in a matter of seconds.
Me: Sounds like a plan. Gotta go. Break’s up.
Breanna: Be safe.
Be safe... I can hear her gentle voice saying the words and it wraps around my bones like a caress. Damn, this girl has me tied in knots.
Off in the trees crickets chirp, and to my right Eli and Pigpen scan the area with their backs toward the driver who’s repairing the tire. Pigpen has his fingers on the piece strapped to his side. Eli’s hand rests on the gun holstered to his back. Man O’ War is up near the front of the rig. We’re rotating watch every ten minutes to stay alert.
Am I safe? No. None of us believe we’re safe. We’re on borrowed time until someone strikes. When I explained to Breanna what I do part-time for the security company, her forehead wrinkled and she fell silent. I never miss how her eyes linger on the patch on my cut that informs law enforcement that I carry a weapon.
The patch is there as a warning to anyone who wants to fuck with me and it’s a calling card to police that I’m legal and papered up on my weapon and that I won’t draw unless someone tries to shoot me first.
It’s hard to witness Breanna’s struggles not to ask the million questions forming in her head or accept when I won’t answer. Some days, I think we’ll make it. Other days, I’m not sure.
The door to the cab of the truck shuts. Man O’ War and Pigpen hang near the front of the rig and Eli strides over to me. “Driver’s almost ready to go.”
I crack my head to the side in an attempt to push away the growing unease. In the red taillights glowing from the back of the truck, Eli appears more like the devil than a friend. It’s too damn dark outside. Too damn quiet. Even the crickets have gone mute.
“Someone’s out there,” I say.
“Faster we get moving, the better. You’ve been a good man to have on this. We knew this trip could be trouble, and I picked you for this run because I knew you could handle it.”
It’s high praise coming from him and I savor the moment.
“Your dad misses you at home,” Eli says simply.
Dad’s texted a few times. Each message a reminder of business with the security company. Stuff he’s aware Eli already told me. Then there are times at the clubhouse when I’ve caught him staring at me from across the room with an expression that suggests he might walk over and talk to me—but he never does.
“Have you thought about moving back?” Eli asks.
“Yeah.” It’s an honest answer, but I leave out the rest—that I can’t return. Not until I know how Mom died.
“You’re letting what the detective said get to you, which means you aren’t trusting your father, the club or me. Each day you spend at Cyrus’s is a confirmation of that.”
“Would you prefer I go home and pretend?” I pretended before the detective and I’m not lying to myself anymore. Unlike Dad, I own some integrity.
“No.” He pauses. “Have you visited with the detective again?”
I straighten and my fists tighten at my sides. Barlow hasn’t contacted me. Either he’s listening to Pigpen’s warning and staying away or he’s trying me at home, not realizing I bailed weeks ago. And I promised to keep my distance from him. “Are you calling me out on my word?”
A stick snaps in the trees and adrenaline pumps into my system. Eli and I turn toward the sound. Instincts flare and my hand goes for my gun. A shadow of movement to my left and I’m throwing Eli to the ground. Bullets whistle past. I cover him as we smack the blacktop.