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After lighting a cigarette, Linc looked forward at an orange sky as night began to beat day into submission. Linc sat on his motorcycle on a desolate road. Not a single sound other than the beat of his heart and the drags he took from the cigarette.
Waiting for Monte to show up felt like waiting for paint to dry on a wall. Already ten minutes late, Linc figured the old man wouldn’t show at all. It was never an ideal situation to be out on a run alone like this.
Linc checked his phone. Instinct took over and something felt wrong. The pit of his stomach just did not feel right and it had nothing to do with the tacos he ate for lunch.
This feels like a fucking set up, Linc thought to himself.
Linc tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, killing its ember’s existence. He called Cyrus—the current President of the Sins of Fire Real Anarchy West motorcycle club.
“Something is wrong here,” Linc said when Cyrus answered with a grunt. “Something is off. I can sense it. Call Monte and make sure that old bastard is okay.”
“He always travels heavy,” Cyrus said.
Traveling heavy meant weapons. Monte loved shotguns in any shape or size.
Straight ahead where the road touched the sky a set of headlights appeared.
“I’ve got company,” Linc said. “I’m telling you, this doesn’t feel right at all.”
“Fuck,” Cyrus said.
Linc ended the call and brought his motorcycle to life. Heading south would send him into enemy territory. Very stupid to do riding solo. Plus, Linc wasn’t the guy who ran. If something was about to go down, he lived to be in the mix of it. No matter what. Just as long as Monte was okay…
Linc began to cruise the road, speeding up by the second. The headlights in front of him grew closer. Linc had a gun tucked safely behind him into the back of his jeans. Riding one handed and tossing bullets with the other hand was sort of a specialty of Linc’s.
Now, logic in a situation such like this, Linc had no idea who drove the car coming toward him. Could have been some guy and his family taking a sunset drive. Could have been some guy with a prostitute sucking his dick before he went home to his wife and kids.
Linc’s phone began to ring. He checked and saw Monte’s name on the screen. He eased up off the throttle and began to move to the side of the road. When he heard the beep of a horn, he looked back and saw a pickup truck driving fast, right toward him.
“What the fuck?” Linc whispered.
He look at the car approaching. It began to move into the other lane. Linc throttled his motorcycle and began to ride the side of the road. It was dusty, rocky, and he knew it was just a matter of moments before he’d lose his balance.
“Fuck,” he growled.
Linc cut back onto the road. As he reached back for his gun, he felt a hot, sweltering pain in his shoulder and chest. Like someone had punched him with a branding iron fresh out of a flame.
He let out a scream and tried to stop his motorcycle the best he could before falling. The pickup truck swerved and went off road around him, leaving a trail of dust. The car sped by without even attempting to slow for a second.
Linc heard the awful sound of his ride hitting the pavement. Metal on road. Steel on road. That unforgiving scraping sound. The back of his head hit the road, semi-gently. His bucket helmet did its job, keeping brains from splattering like a red jelly filled water balloon thrown to the ground.
Above him, the first few stars began to make their entrance. It wasn’t exactly nighttime, but it was far from daytime. They called it twilight…
That’s how Linc felt—stuck in twilight.
Blood seeping from the gunshot wound. Linc knew the outlaw code. Which was also the code for life.
Eventually… everyone dies.
Chapter Two
Here’s a Tip
The only reason Nova felt even a little bit safe in some of the sketchy neighborhoods in Cielo was because of her decent sized SUV. Sure, the old girl grumbled when you started her and the gears bounced when they shifted and the clock always found a way to run five minutes too slow, but she did her job. Flipping one hundred thousand miles three times and still trucking along.
A kind woman’s voice spoke to her from her phone. The cliché, slightly computerized GPS voice letting Nova know it was time to turn into a driveway.
Her phone was fastened with a black clip that stuck to the dashboard.
