“It’s on notepaper and wrapped around a pouch of blood. If you shoot, it’ll be soaked and unreadable.”
Dice found the Nomad’s response a little too convenient. He’d never pulled this stunt before, wrapping paper around a sack of blood. For this tactic to be true, he would’ve had to have known their plans regarding the fuel ahead of time, which wasn’t possible, since only he and Fletcher were in the loop. “I still say he’s bluffing, boss,”
The Nomad continued the countdown. “Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”
Fletcher brought his hands up in a flash of movement. “Okay, you win. Stop the countdown.”
“Countdown on hold,” the Nomad announced in a deep, purposeful tone, almost as if he were narrating a scene from a cheesy science fiction book about a woman terrorist being put to death in front of a live, betting audience.
“Everyone just take a deep breath. It’s all good,” Fletcher said, pausing before he put his fingers into his mouth again. He let out a sharp whistle. “Pepper—”
Pepper’s head appeared from above, hanging over the roofline of the train station.
“Call them in,” Fletcher said to the man.
“Sure thing, boss.” Pepper rose to his feet and aimed his rifle into the air. He fired one shot, then held for a few beats before firing two more in rapid succession. When the echo of the last two rounds faded, he triggered a fourth shot, then brought the rifle down.
“They’re on their way,” Fletcher told Nomad.
“One truck only and no more men,” the Nomad said, bringing the tip of one of his swords around to face the center of his chest, directly at the spot he’d tapped earlier. “Or this ends now.”
“I give you my word. The fuel is on the way, exactly as you asked.”
Silence hung in the air for a minute, until Dice couldn’t hold back a question weighing on his tongue. He pointed at the red smears on the side of the Nomad’s truck. “Looks like you’ve seen some action.”
“A fair amount.”
“Recently.”
“Very.”
Just then, an explanation slammed into his mind. “That’s one of Edison’s, isn’t it? From the Trading Post massacre.”
“Yes.”
“I hope you know those supplies were ours.”
“That’s not how I see it.”
Dice looked at Fletcher, wondering why the man wasn’t engaging on this topic. The Nomad stole what was supposed to be theirs. “Boss?”
“Let it be, Dice.”
“But—”
“That’s an order. What happened at the Trading Post wasn’t anyone’s fault. Let’s just get this deal done and be on our way.”
No more words were spoken until the transport truck arrived in a rev of its engine, then swung around wide, much like the Nomad had done, only from the opposite side.
Fletcher whistled again, then sent a hand wave to the driver. “Back it in.”
The driver nodded, then performed a quick turnaround before backing the vehicle into position. When its tailgate was about two feet from the rear of the Nomad’s truck, Fletcher whistled again and held up a closed fist.
The driver stopped the truck in a squeal of its brake pads, then put it into park before he slid out and walked to the rear. He unhooked the pins holding the tailgate in place and lowered it.
“Now the intel,” Fletcher said, again holding out his hand.
The Nomad took a step back, put his swords away, then turned and made a direct path to the fuel truck, squeezing his frame between the open tailgate and his own truck. His head turned for a few beats as he looked inside.
Dice moved his fingers to his pistol, resting his hand on the leather of the holster. If the Nomad climbed inside, he’d have to pull the weapon and fire.
The Nomad brought his attention back, then retraced his steps, arriving within striking distance this time. His hand went inside his coat and he pulled out a folded piece of paper. There was no pouch of blood.
“Shit, I knew it,” Dice mumbled.
Fletcher took the paper from the Nomad and unfolded it. His eyes lingered on the contents for a few moments, then he looked at Dice. “Looks like it’s underground.”
“Then Frost was right,” Dice said.
“For once,” Fletcher replied.
“An old missile silo,” the Nomad said.
“How heavy is their security?” Fletcher asked
“Virtually none.”
Fletcher held out his hand to the masked man. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
The Nomad ignored him and instead turned and walked to the fuel truck, his swords jostling in their sheaths along his sides.
The driver tossed him the keys as he cruised by.
The Nomad snatched them in mid-air, then climbed into the truck, started it, and drove away, taking the same route he’d used on the way in.
Dice looked at Fletcher. “I thought for sure he was going to inspect the drum.”
“So did I, especially with all the tension today. Why did you push him like that?”
“Not sure, but something was off—I just couldn’t put my finger on it. He seemed different somehow.”
Fletcher nodded. “I got that feeling, too.”
“Maybe he felt something was off about us, too. That’s why he was acting different. Some kind of sixth sense.”
“Could be.”
“Either way, he’s eventually going to figure it out.”
“By then, it’ll be too late.”
“I hope you’re right, boss. Because men like him always come looking for revenge. It’s that honor thing getting in the way.”
“Of course he will, and we’ll be ready,” Fletcher said, whistling to his men. “Let’s roll out!”
CHAPTER 25
Summer leaned back in the chair in Edison’s office and put her arms behind her head. She closed her eyes and drew in a quick, massive round of air and let it out just as fast, wondering if anyone else would have had the same level of anxiety she had if they were sitting in this spot instead of her, pretending to be the leader. One who’d just taken the reins with zero credibility or experience.
It was one thing to be able to sit in Edison’s space and not have her chest crushed by another round of heartache after all the bloodshed and death.
But attempting to fake it till she made it? How did she do that when she had no clue how to even fake it?
None of her new reality made sense and yet, here she was—in his office, tasked as the person in charge of Nirvana.
So far, she thought she’d kept it all under control—well mostly, but of course it was all a lie. Everyone, including her, knew that she was inadequate to take Edison’s place.
If only her trepidation ended there. Everything around her reminded her of Stuart. Not just visually, which was to be expected. What she found odd was that she could smell him—everywhere. Even on the desk in front of her and the walls.
Sure, it was old man stink that had been sprayed with layers of humidity and wrapped inside a thick, moldy blanket.
By themselves, some might consider these fragrances disgusting, but they weren’t to her and she knew why—the strange mixture was Edison. Perfectly so.
Even unpleasant smells have memories attached to them. And everywhere she looked, that’s what she saw and felt—memories—fond memories—all of them flooding into her mind, each one attached to a unique aroma.
She took a moment to search her memories, but couldn’t remember a time when she’d noticed his scent before. It must have been as prevalent back then as she thought it was right now. If that were true, then why couldn’t she remember any of those aromas?
Perhaps it was a death thing. Something about once you leave the Earth, your stink takes over in your stead.