Page 35 of Devil's Due: Sarge

“Greer?” Vlad asks into the line and I freak the hell out.

“He’s bad,” I cry. “He’s so bad… and I’m alone and he’s in the hospital… I… I had to leave him there…”

“Whoa, slow down,” he commands me. “Sweetheart, where is Sarge?”

“We were attacked.” I squeeze my eyes shut then realize that I’m driving, so that’s probably a stupid idea, even though there’s not another car anywhere in sight. Wiping at my nose, I take a breath to continue. “Some biker club…”

“What club?”

“I don’t know.”

“Greer, this is important, what club?”

“Uh… there was a noose… on the back patch. A devil and a noose.”

“Fuck—you sure?”

“Yes. Who are they?”

“Devil’s fucking Hangmen. He got you out safe? I mean, you hurt?”

“Yes and no… He got me to the truck safe, but I had to run people over to get him out. Vlad, I killed people. And they beat him so bad. And…” The tears get the better of me again. “They stabbed him.” I hear his grumbled ‘goddammit’ in the background. “What if he dies? What will I do?”

“He’s not dying. Now, you need to get somewhere safe and let me know where you are so we can get to you.”

“Okay—wait, why didn’t you yell at me when I called? Why didn’t you ask me where the hell I am or anything?”

“Greer, sweetheart, we’re on our way to Texas right now. I pulled over to the shoulder when you called. He came to me before you left. He’s been checking in the whole time.”

Oh. Why didn’t I realize he’d tell his president, even if I’d asked him not to? They have a bond that runs deeper than what runs between the two of us.

“Greer?” he prods.

“I need to find someplace safe. I’ll call you back.” I tell him the name of the town where I left Sarge then without a goodbye, I hang up. Where is safe anymore?

There’s only one place that comes to mind. The one place I never wanted to look at again. But it should be empty.

I pull off to the shoulder of the highway to look for anything that might help me find my way because at this point, I have no idea if I’m heading the right way. At first, I search the glovebox. Nothing helpful there. With no other place to look, I check under the front seat. There, Sarge had stashed an old-school atlas. What a brilliant, brilliant man. Seriously, who uses atlases these days when every smartphone in the world has GPS? For someone like me, with a crappy burner flip phone, it’s a miracle.

It takes a minute to find Texas, and then a couple more pages to find central Texas. From there, it’s simply a matter of finding the city where I left Sarge and the highway.

There’s a crossroad about four miles ahead. Taking that will lead me right past the turnoff to Halfway.

Three miles.

Two miles.

One mile.

Shit, I’ve never been so happy to see an off-ramp in my life. It’s been a crappy day and with the sun starting to set, I’m looking at a crappy night. But at least I’ll get clean and be able to make it to my meeting tomorrow at noon.

When the turnoff comes into view, I swear I could cry happy tears but instead click on my blinker. Though I won’t be heading into town tonight. A few miles outside of town, I take a different turnoff. Every bit of the long, bumpy, pothole-pocked drive is achingly familiar. I hate it as much as I’m happy to be here. And I’m bone-deep tired by the time I reach the four singlewide trailers situated in a square to give the women who used to live here, of which I was one, a safe courtyard outside.

The absolute quiet fills me with a dreaded unease. The blood and bodies are gone, long since removed by the Outcasts, friends of the Lords who came to our—Nicola’s and my—rescue.

My backpack slung over my shoulder; I climb the two steps to the front door. It’s unlocked. Why would it not be? There’s no one left to protect. Everything, save for the carnage, is exactly as we’d left it that sad summer day. The first thing I do is head for the shower. The solar panels will ensure that there’s hot water. I get the water to temperature, peel off my blood-soaked shirt and shorts, and step into the spray. There’s not enough water in the world to wash off my part in why this place fell or the memories of today, but I scrub and scrub just the same, trying to scrub away as much as possible.

After I dry off with the same old towels hanging in the same spot they’d always hung, I dress in clean underwear, green cotton shorts with a small slit up each thigh, and a gray razorback, ribbed tank top. Then I head to my room. Each footstep gets heavier and heavier and by the time I reach it, I fall face first onto the mattress, not even bothering to use my hands to stop from face planting. A mushroom cloud of dust poofs in the air when I hit. It burns my eyes, making them water, and burns my lungs, making me cough.

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