Rain slid off pine needles, thickening the dirt into mud that clung at her Converse. Fatigue crawled up her legs. She bent her knees, trying to shake it off. A noise crackled behind her, she turned then glanced at the cold flashlight in her hands. No way she risked tipping off Gordon.
Yet he seemed too deep in thought to notice. Gordon sat stone-faced in his tan Plymouth, eyes softening only when headlights passed. He looked like a man grinding his thoughts to pulp.
Every so often, his fingers touched his mustache—not a twitch, but a reset. Each time, his stare snapped back to the now.
"What the hell are you doing?" she muttered as a car sped past.
Gordon rolled down his window, stuck the magnetic light on the roof, and peeled off into the dark.
Perez ran. Branches clawed at her jacket as she sprinted through the forest. Her breath caught in her throat. The siren was already wailing somewhere ahead. She slipped—landed hard. Her knee flared with pain, warm and wet.
"Fuck," she hissed.
She should've stayed in the car. But it was a long stretch to Newtown. No turn-offs for at least a mile. She thought she had time to catch up to him.
Then the lights came through the thicket of trees. When she reached the rest stop, a black four-door rolled past the restrooms. Gordon followed close behind. She ducked behind the building.
Her breath came in sharp bursts. She felt the pulse in her chest, a tangle of fear and curiosity. After a long inhale, she edged her head out—just enough to catch a glimpse of Gordon's back seat. Red taillights flared across the black asphalt.
She inched along the wall, her back pressed tight.
The flashing red light strobed across her face, warping her reflection in the backseat windows. She kept close to the corner's edge, watching.
Gordon stepped out, using the driver's door as cover. He yelled for Flass to exit with his hands raised. Flass obeyed, slow and casual. Gordon told him to remove his coat and turn around. Flass peeled it off, tossing it into his car, then turned his back to Gordon.
Flass clenched a fist. "You got any idea who the fuck I am?"
Gordon didn't answer. He approached, silent. Patted Flass down. Pulled a gun from his holster. Another from his ankle. Tossed them both aside.
"Turn around," Gordon said, holstering his own weapon.
Flass squinted, recognition dawning—but then something shifted in his eyes. It was fear. He scanned the rest stop.
Perez ducked again. Waited. Then looked out once more.
"So you're Gordon," Flass said. His voice had changed. It was relaxed, almost taunting.
Gordon still didn't answer.
"Been looking for you. Loeb wants to talk."
Gordon stripped off his coat and shoulder holster, throwing them onto the hood of the Plymouth.
"I know," he said, rolling up his sleeves.
Just two words, but they carried weight. Perez felt her heart pounding.
Flass nodded, smirking. He shrugged out of his own holster and let it fall to the pavement.
"You're a Navy SEAL, right?"
Gordon said nothing, as though he refused to give him the satisfaction, refused to feed the banter.
"Fucking tight-lipped bastards." Flass cracked his knuckles. "Loeb said to bring you in unharmed. Guess that's off the table."
They squared off. No trash talk. No warning.
Flass swung wide.
Missed.
Gordon stepped in, buried a punch in Flass's ribs, then cracked him across the face. Flass staggered back, swung again—too slow. Gordon slipped it, hit him twice more.
They didn't fight like overconfident drunks throwing fists. Or skilled boxers dodging for an angle. This was older. Uglier. A kind of violence that knew exactly what pain could do.
They swung to do damage.
Gordon didn't miss often. And when he landed, it hurt.
Flass took a couple shots to the ribs, gritted through it, then overreached. Gordon caught the arm mid-swing and slammed him into the asphalt.
Perez dropped to her stomach for a better view. Flass was on his back, arms up, trying to cover—but Gordon's fists came in rhythm. Wet thuds. Bone and flesh. Rain scattering off them like dust.
She thought he might kill him.
Maybe he should.
When Flass's hands gave up, she almost ran out to stop it all. Almost.
But then Gordon stopped. His breathing the only sound beside the rain.
"Stay away from my family," he said, out of breath.
Then Gordon wiped his bloodied hands on Flass's shirt. He stood, not like a fighter, but a man worn thin, walking back to his car.
When the headlights disappeared, Perez stood up, brushing flakes of asphalt from her palms as she inched closer to Flass—worried he'd wake but also curious if he was still breathing.
He was but unconscious. His nose bent sideways. His face was raw and bloodied.
Perez swallowed hard.
She bolted to her car, half-swallowed by dark at the edge of the rest stop. Her fingers fumbled for the keys. She glanced back.
Still motionless.
When the engine finally turned over, she peeled out.
She made it a quarter mile before reaching for a cigarette. Dropped one. Then another. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She finally mouthed one, shoved the lighter in, cursing it until it popped.
She burned the end. Snapped the lighter back in.
"Holy fuck," she said after a long drag.