Page 2 of Iron and Ivory

Eleanor's book.

Pages and pages of me.

Two years old in a dirt yard with no shoes.

Five years old sittin' on the porch of the trailer.

Eight years old with a black eye and a fish I caught in the Yellowstone, holdin' it up like it was a trophy, like I'd won somethin'.

Twelve.

Fourteen.

Sixteen with my first tattoo.

She documented my whole goddamn life. Every scar, every season, every version of me that got broke down and rebuilt into somethin' worse. And my own mother—my own mother—never once picked up a camera. Never once thought the boy standin' in front of her was worth rememberin'.

Eleanor did.

And I cried like a fuckin' child down there in that bunker, with Savannah sittin' right next to me, and I couldn't shut it off. Because somebody saw me. Somebody looked at me and said, That one. That one matters. Even if she was crazy. Even if her reasons were twisted up with my dead father, and her own obsessions, and whatever sick thing lived between the two of us that I still can't name.

She saw me.

And now she's dead. And Havoc's dead. And Brick's dead. And thirty-six bodies are buried in Montana clay with my fingerprints all over the shovels.

The Feds will come.

Not local cops.

Not the sheriff with his one cruiser and his Ashby paycheck.

The FBI. ATF. Maybe fuckin' Homeland if they wanna make it a show.

Five of their agents are in the ground right now, includin' Brandy, and the United States government does not just shrug that off.

They come in heavy.

They come in with helicopters and tactical teams and warrants and cameras, and they turn it into a goddamn television event so every citizen in America can watch the bad guys go down.

Seventy-two hours. Maybe less.

That's what I got. Three days max before they trace the missin' agents back to Badlands. Before somebody talks, or somebody's wife calls a contact, or the surveillance Brandy was runnin' pings a server somewhere and men in suits start drivin' toward Terry, Montana with enough firepower to level the compound.

Three days to breathe.

Three days to figure out if I'm runnin', fightin', or just waitin' to die.

The wind hits harder and I lean into it, lettin' the cold eat through me, because the cold is honest. It doesn't pretend to be somethin' it isn't.

It's here.

Deal with it.

Badlands is dark in the distance when I turn onto the dirt road. Dark the way a held breath is dark—not empty, just waitin'. The road winds around the base of the wind-torn mountain and I ride it slow, feelin' every rut and loose stone.

The bike's loud out here, louder than she oughta be, her exhaust bouncin' off the striated canyon walls and comin' back at me like an accusation.

When I come around the last outcropping and the gate swings into view, it's already openin' for me before I even slow down. Dusty and Crow are mannin' it. Both of 'em standin' in the heaviness that comes from havin' a high-powered rifle across your chest and knowin' you might need it before sunrise.