Page 122 of Root

But I fed them tantalizing lies, claimed I have a book with all of Nikolai’s movements. I touch the book in my inner jacket pocket. Once they look…

I’m hoping they think the columns of what I think are chess moves and games are code. The writing’s messy, and I stole it from Rush’s room.

A car zooms by on the highway, kicking up a little smoke from a bad muffler, and I watch it go.

I’m as prepared as I can be. And I’m following what I was told on the phone at Bunny’s, to come out here and await further instructions.

I’ve got knuckle dusters, a gun and bullets I stole. My knife ring.

And along with my death wish, I’m parked two turn offs down from the one they said to wait at.

That one’s got a lot of trees leading up into outskirt homes. Here? I’m under a tree, but I can see anyone who might approach.

It’s the best I can do.

While I wait, I load the gun and slide it into the back of my pants, and the duster into the pocket of my jacket.

If they frisk and search, it makes sense to be carrying. But… They might not check me because, after all, what damage can I do?

Even I know not much.

I’m not completely equipped to take on a brutal and lawless gang, but better me than Rush who doesn’t play this game. I get he’s dangerous, but none of these people in his life deal with the wild gangs. The bikers and gangs in Queenstown? They bow to Nikolai and his people. They’re domesticated.

My phone buzzes.

Got it, bitch?

My fingers turn cold and clumsy as I type back. Do you have my brother?

Ur in no position 2 bargain.

Brutus in one piece, alive, or no information. Got shit on Smith, too. And their plans to wipe you out.

The phone goes silent.

Then it buzzes.

Stone’s Throw bar. Ten minutes. Or u both die.

I pat the stolen bike. “Showtime.”

The bar is a real roadside dive, out further on the highway, and a good fifteen minutes outside of Queenstown’s outer boroughs, which means outside, I’d imagine, Wilder jurisdiction. There’s probably a small town farther off the road, but I’m not interested in looking. Jack and I stopped here at the bar once, years ago.

My phone buzzes but I ignore it. Instead, I tuck it away and take in a steadying breath as my heart slams erratically into my ribs. I walk across the parking lot to the door of the squat bar.

Bikes and pickups litter the lot. Not that many, but more than you’d think for a late afternoon stretch of highway.

I push open the door and the bartender looks up. If music was playing, it’d screech to a halt. As it is, the chatter in the room lulls. And the men, big and burly, turn to face me. Except one.

The two flanking him turn. They’re covered in tattoos. One has a beard, the other needs a shave. They’re probably mid-fifties and they’re in suits.

So is the other man.

He takes his time, drinking his beer, before he turns. “So you’re the little bitch of a cunt.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

He doesn’t even crack a smile.

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