accelerator ever could. Her hands maneuvered carefully to avoid the wound in his side, but it didn't matter—his torso was a structure, and pushing in one part meant that the rest of the parts moved as well. Though she squeezed tight enough to hurt, he wasn't going to say anything about it. He could put up with the hurt to feel her on him.
As good as it felt to have a ride, to feel the wind ripping at his face, it felt even better to have her arms wrapped around him again. More than he wanted to admit.
Beretta had been forced to get a new bike over the past year, after his was stolen during the war with the Wrecking Crew. He got a new model Evolution engine, its handlebars chopped high and with a long shotgun-style exhaust powering out the back.
They rode fast. The landscape blew by. The lab that Gallows set up had to be far away from the rest of the population. There was too much smell to keep it close to the neighborhoods and urban districts of Stockland, and they had no way to hide such a facility in the city.
So, Gallows had found a place up in the hill country surrounding Stockland. It was out of the way and hard to get to, which was both in its favor and against it. Difficult for passers-by to happen across or for police to spot. But difficult also to reach in a hurry, and difficult to resupply. It was the safest play they had, but that didn’t make it any easier riding up hills on a motorcycle.
Gallows was a meticulous man. In his previous life he’d been a crewman on a submarine. For him, working in a meth lab for weeks at a time to produce a product was nothing compared to sitting underwater for six months at a time in a nuclear vessel. He was a good choice for a cook, and Beretta was glad they had him to put to work. Without some influx of cash, this mission in Stockland was going to go south sooner than later.
Gallows completed their cast of outcasts, a shorter man with a bald head and thick dark beard. He wasn't wanted in Marlowe any more than the rest of them. Or rather, that was the problem—he was wanted in Marlowe.
He'd had a tough run of robberies, getting identified and nearly caught in five of his past six. Keeping him close was an excuse to bring heat down on the Crew, and Howitzer wouldn't stand for it.
The Wrecking Crew in Stockland wasn't much to look at. A soldier with a gambling problem; a traitor with a sobriety problem; a scoundrel with a woman problem; a fighter with a scoundrel problem; and a fugitive on the run. They were as piecemeal as it got.
They made it to the cabin about a quarter to noon. None of them had eaten much for breakfast—they had some hard bread in the warehouse, but that was it—and they were all hungry and irritable. The cook house was more of a shack; it didn’t look to have more than one room to it. Its windows were painted black, and the only thing younger than twenty years old on it was the new ventilation system that Gallows had installed.
That by itself had cost them five thousand dollars; supplies for the rest of the cook and the property set them back the rest of their nest egg when they moved in. Only Ace knew the total tally.
This had been expected; but all the same, it was time to start making money. As they turned their bikes off, a soft hush fell over the woods. It was too quiet, too suddenly, for Beretta’s liking. The sun fell harshly on the rocky hill. Squirrels chased each other over a boulder in the distance, and birds chirped loudly, hopping from tree to tree.
Ace stepped off his bike and called out. “Gallows! Hey, Gallows!”
His voice echoed across the rocks, but no one answered. Ace cast a suspicious look at the shack and then at the other outlaws.
“He might be sleeping,” said Locke.
“Get your piece out and let’s see,” said Beretta.
Whatever Gallows was doing, sleeping was unlikely. He wasn’t the sort to sleep through five bikes revving through the woodsy trail he was living on top of. As a fugitive, you had to have a
As good as it felt to have a ride, to feel the wind ripping at his face, it felt even better to have her arms wrapped around him again. More than he wanted to admit.
Beretta had been forced to get a new bike over the past year, after his was stolen during the war with the Wrecking Crew. He got a new model Evolution engine, its handlebars chopped high and with a long shotgun-style exhaust powering out the back.
They rode fast. The landscape blew by. The lab that Gallows set up had to be far away from the rest of the population. There was too much smell to keep it close to the neighborhoods and urban districts of Stockland, and they had no way to hide such a facility in the city.
So, Gallows had found a place up in the hill country surrounding Stockland. It was out of the way and hard to get to, which was both in its favor and against it. Difficult for passers-by to happen across or for police to spot. But difficult also to reach in a hurry, and difficult to resupply. It was the safest play they had, but that didn’t make it any easier riding up hills on a motorcycle.
Gallows was a meticulous man. In his previous life he’d been a crewman on a submarine. For him, working in a meth lab for weeks at a time to produce a product was nothing compared to sitting underwater for six months at a time in a nuclear vessel. He was a good choice for a cook, and Beretta was glad they had him to put to work. Without some influx of cash, this mission in Stockland was going to go south sooner than later.
Gallows completed their cast of outcasts, a shorter man with a bald head and thick dark beard. He wasn't wanted in Marlowe any more than the rest of them. Or rather, that was the problem—he was wanted in Marlowe.
He'd had a tough run of robberies, getting identified and nearly caught in five of his past six. Keeping him close was an excuse to bring heat down on the Crew, and Howitzer wouldn't stand for it.
The Wrecking Crew in Stockland wasn't much to look at. A soldier with a gambling problem; a traitor with a sobriety problem; a scoundrel with a woman problem; a fighter with a scoundrel problem; and a fugitive on the run. They were as piecemeal as it got.
They made it to the cabin about a quarter to noon. None of them had eaten much for breakfast—they had some hard bread in the warehouse, but that was it—and they were all hungry and irritable. The cook house was more of a shack; it didn’t look to have more than one room to it. Its windows were painted black, and the only thing younger than twenty years old on it was the new ventilation system that Gallows had installed.
That by itself had cost them five thousand dollars; supplies for the rest of the cook and the property set them back the rest of their nest egg when they moved in. Only Ace knew the total tally.
This had been expected; but all the same, it was time to start making money. As they turned their bikes off, a soft hush fell over the woods. It was too quiet, too suddenly, for Beretta’s liking. The sun fell harshly on the rocky hill. Squirrels chased each other over a boulder in the distance, and birds chirped loudly, hopping from tree to tree.
Ace stepped off his bike and called out. “Gallows! Hey, Gallows!”
His voice echoed across the rocks, but no one answered. Ace cast a suspicious look at the shack and then at the other outlaws.
“He might be sleeping,” said Locke.
“Get your piece out and let’s see,” said Beretta.
Whatever Gallows was doing, sleeping was unlikely. He wasn’t the sort to sleep through five bikes revving through the woodsy trail he was living on top of. As a fugitive, you had to have a
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