Page 62 of Beautiful Ruins
“Looks like our guy finally found his balls,” Scout muttered, leaning forward, his hands shaking.
Bear scoffed. “And they want to be dramatic about it,” he said, sarcastic and sharp as ever.
I lit a cigarette, letting the smoke fill the van before opening my door to let the night air swallow it up. Bear mirrored the action on the driver’s side, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel as he stepped out. Smoke and shadows billowed upin front of my face, while Scout stumbled out after us, wide-eyed and ready for whatever was about to go down.
My stomach coiled tight. Last time I let relief get ahead of instinct, someone ended up in a goddamn box.
I held up a hand to cover my eyes as the light swept across my face, bright enough that I could barely make out the figure holding it.
“Are you Rowan?” The man behind the torch called out.
I knew that voice. Not well—but enough for it to punch straight through my gut. It didn’t belong there.
“You mind not shining that fucking thing in my face?” I snapped, the sharpness in my voice masking the thrum of nerves tightening my chest.
I wasn’t playing games with this bloke, nor was I about to hide my frustration at being kept waiting.
Bear squared his shoulders the way he did when he was prepping for a fight. Scout reached back, fingers grazing the handle of his blade. Just in case.
“Sorry.” The light fell to the ground in front of my feet and a scrawny kid, probably no older than Scout, came into view.
He scratched at the side of his neck, shifting on his feet in a way that told me he was ready to bolt at any moment. His hesitation set me on edge. But more than that was the fact I’d seen him before. I was sure of it, even in the dark. Old Man Jenkins’s grandson.
I should have known the old bastard was taking me for a ride. Bullshit he knew nothing about the stolen parts.
“You called this meeting,” Bear said, stepping forward, “so start talking before we decide you’re not worth the drive.”
He flinched, his grip on the torch tightening and loosening. Tightening again. But he never opened his mouth. Just rubbed at the back of his neck like he could somehow rub off the cold that had settledbetween us.
Bear stepped in front of me, blocking my line of sight and making his distrust known. I didn’t blame him. The kid looked like he’d crack under the slightest pressure. Maybe that’s exactly what was happening.
The torchlight bounced across the gravel, illuminating nothing but dust and the odd glint of rusted nails in the dirt. The kid continued to shift back and forth, stealing glances over his shoulder. Was he waiting for someone to jump out of the shadows? Or . . . was he just waiting for someone, period? Help, perhaps? I couldn’t see past his silhouette.
“You’re wasting our time,” I said, stepping around Bear.
I flicked the cigarette butt to the dirt and flexed my fingers once, testing how far I could push before they curled into fists. My nerves were raw, the edge of my voice impossible to hold back. He needed to spit it out before I decided this wasn’t worth the trouble.
“I’m sorry.” His voice shook, barely above a whisper, the torchlight moving in jittery arcs. “They said if I didn’t—God, they said they’d hurt my grandad.” His shoulders sagged with each word. I couldn’t tell if he was giving up or giving in.
Bear took one more step forward, stretching out his fingers. “Made you do what?” he growled out, fists clenched like he already knew the answer and hated it.
I barely had time to blink when gunfire erupted around us. Fuck. Bullets sprayed the van. The ground. Fucking everywhere. Sparks lit up the dark. I snapped a hand out, grabbing Bear by the jacket and dragging him backwards towards the van.
“Get down! Get down!” I shouted, my voice barely rising above the echo of metal hitting metal.
My muscles burned under the exertion of dragging Bear back. Should’ve known the kid was bait. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.
Everything exploded into chaos, bullets flying from every direction. The still from a few seconds ago was long gone, ripped apart just as the air around us whispered our deaths.
Bear stumbled, but was right beside me, keeping pace, while Scout ducked low, wide-eyed and too stunned to even make a sound.
A bullet skimmed past my head, close enough that the heat of it burnt a path along my skin. I veered sideways, shoving Scout out of the way. He hit the dirt hard, face-first, grit scraping his skin. Bear grabbed him around the back of his shirt, yanking him to his feet.
The van was ten metres off, its dark shape a shadow against the backdrop of our impending downfall. My boots hammered the dirt, gravel skidding underfoot as Bear and Scout lunged ahead.
Metal shrieked in front of us—another bullet, ricocheting off the bumper. There was no way we were getting out without at least a little bloodshed.
I pulled my handgun from my holster tucked under my jacket and spun, firing off a couple of rounds into the darkness.
