Page 32 of Fury

It was time for me to invest in me.

I could finally plan on getting Serena out and bringing her with me, keeping her safe.

I had to plan.

When I was fourteen, I’d gone out one night with my dad to set a bomb at this rich guy’s house who owed money to someone the club owed a favor to. My dad had set up this intricate wiring in his basement workroom, then at three in the morning we’d laid it out at the target location, setting up the bells and whistles.

“Why don’t you just set up a thingamajig with a remote control and let that be the end of it?” I’d whined in the icy cold air, slipping on a patch of mud for the tenth time.

He’d grabbed onto my arm and pulled me close to him. “I don’t just blow shit up, Kid. I design an experience. It’s a thing of wonder for them and for me. You know those cartoons and old western movies with the long cord connected to the pack of dynamite? And it sparks along, traveling up the cord until kaboom, it blows?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“There may not be cords and dynamite packs anymore, but I still set the distance, the time interval of the kaboom—it’s a dance. I don’t just blow shit up like some moron. You got to consider the timing, the spectacle, and the afterwards. Each one has its own requirements and rewards. It’s up to you to set the time for yourself to move to a safe distance, ‘cause you still want to be part of the experience. At least, I do. It demands patience, planning, precise calculating. And many times you need to improvise at the last minute. You gotta be ready for anything at any time.” His eyes actually gleamed. “Any jackass can mouth off, pick a fight, shoot his gun. What I’m talking about takes creativity. Know your opponent, be conscious of the blow back, where the particles will fall. And leave no clues behind. It’s always tempting to go the big immediate route, but trust me. It ain’t worth it. Most assholes don’t get that, but I’m telling you, it’s worth the work you put into it.”

My father, the Fuse, was a fucking smart man.

A smile broadened my lips, my gaze remaining on Reich.

Yeah, Nebraska.

I leaned forward on the great wood table, folding my hands together. “Nebraska, huh? Cool.”

Chaz glanced at me, sitting up in his chair. Reich’s eyes narrowed at me, his brow a tense ridge. His highly anticipated explosive device had malfunctioned.

“They need good people there. You’ll be an asset, Finger.” Coop knocked his gavel against wood, and my pulse thudded.

Fuck you, Reich.

I pushed back from the table and strode out the door. I packed my extra pair of boots, my two other jackets, the few clothes I had, the compass, and headed for my bike.

I never wanted to be reminded of that room again. That room being the only home I’d ever known since I was seven years old. All the shit in it—the small TV, the clock radio, the posters, the worn out blankets, the whatever the fuck, weren’t mine, but theirs, and I wanted no part of any of it no more. I was going to shake all of it and all of them off me like dust.

Dust.

I grabbed the urn filled with my dad’s remains.

“Finger, wait up!” Gyp came running after me as I loaded the back of my bike. “Oh man, this sucks.”

“Nah, it’s fine. It’s better this way. I’m good with it.” I pulled tight on the bungee straps over my duffle bag and clipped them over the back.

“You left a lot of shit behind. You want me to pack it up and send it to you?”

“No. You take whatever you want. Dump the rest.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Shit, I’m gonna miss you.” Gyp hugged me and let me go real quick. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “Come for a visit.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

I got on my Panhead and started her up. Her roar warmed my blood in the cold morning air. I swung out of the property and took off.

Three and a half hours later on Highway 136, I finally got to the border of Nebraska at Brownville. The iron suspension bridge spanning the Missouri River beckoned me in the distance.

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