Page 11 of Twisted Steel

Despite himself, his mouth twitches.“Definitely.”

I step closer again, but not enough to crowd him.I am already learning that from her, which pisses me off.“You care about her?”

“She’s my partner.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He exhales.“Yeah.I care about her.She’s annoying, bossy, reckless when someone’s bleeding, and she steals my good pens.But, yeah.”

“Then watch her back until I can.”

Milo’s expression hardens.“She won’t like that.”

“No, she won’t.”

“She won’t like you either.”

Something in his voice bothers me, like he sees too much.

I step back.“Tell her if she sees anything strange, she should call the number.”

“She won’t.”He knows her better than I do, but I already know he isn’t wrong.

“She will if she’s scared enough.”

His face twists.“You don’t know Harper.”

No, I don’t.But I do know she has steady hands under fire, I know she uses sarcasm like armor, and I know when I grabbed her, she demanded release before she demanded safety.I know I let go, and that part keeps playing in my head.Like a bullet I can’t dig out.

Milo leaves with his coffee and too much worry on his face, and I wait until he drives off before I move.Station Eight sits quietly under sodium lights.Two rigs are parked in the bay.A vending machine glowing inside like an altar to bad choices.I watch from across the street, hidden beside a closed body shop.

I tell myself this is surveillance, protection, club business.Then Harper steps outside.

She has changed out of her bloody uniform into dark pants and a gray t-shirt.Her hair is pulled back tighter than before, and she carries herself as if exhaustion is something she can bully into submission.

She pauses beneath the bay light and looks around, not casually, but searching.My chest tightens.She feels it, the danger.For half a second, I think her gaze lands on my shadow, but that’s impossible.I’m too far back.

Then her hand slips into her pocket, and I remember giving her my card.She doesn’t pull it out and doesn’t call.

Stubborn fucking woman.

A black sedan rolls slowly past the station, and everything in me goes still.Harper notices too, and her spine straightens.Her face goes blank in the way civilians think hides fear but never does.

The sedan keeps moving.The plate is covered in dust, and there are two men inside.I memorize what matters before I move.By the time the sedan turns the corner, I am already on my bike.I follow without lights, keeping the engine low, and the distance measured.They aren’t professionals.Not real ones.They circle Station Eight twice, slow enough to look, fast enough to pretend they aren’t.

On the third loop, I cut them off behind an abandoned tire shop.My bike blocks the alley exit.Their brakes scream.For one second, everyone waits before the passenger reaches for a gun.

Wrong choice.I cross the distance before he clears leather.The driver gets one good look at me and goes pale before I rip the passenger out through the open window, because doors are for people who deserve convenience.He hits the ground hard, choking on air, and the gun skitters across the pavement.

The driver fumbles with the gearshift, and I put my fist through his window.Glass bursts, and he screams when I grab him by the throat and drag his face close enough to smell his fear.

“Who sent you?”

He claws at my wrist, and I loosen my grip enough for words.

“I don’t...”

I slam his head against the steering wheel, and the horn blares once.