Page 42 of Nitro

Nitro looked at me, then at Damron. “What’s the move?”

Damron grinned, but it was ugly, humorless. “You run. You hide. You call me when the heat dies down, and I’ll get you a new name and a new bike.”

Nitro nodded, as if he’d known all along.

I wanted to scream, to break something, to demand that the world give me one day—just one—without having to run or hide or apologize. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry.”

Nitro shook his head. “No more apologies, Doc. Not from you.”

He turned to Damron, hand on the doorknob. “Got a head start for me?”

Damron laughed. “Garage is clear. Augustine left you a burner in the saddlebag. I’d be gone ten minutes ago.”

Nitro flashed a grin. “Always the planner.”

He looked at me one last time. I tried to read his eyes, to memorize the shape of them, the angle of light, the unspoken whatever that lived behind the brown and black.

He touched my shoulder, just a second, then was gone.

Damron watched him leave, then turned to me. “He’s a good man, for what that’s worth.”

I nodded, but the words had no place to go.

The door swung shut, and I sat back on the bed, numb all over.

The world had started up again, all right.

And this time, it wasn’t going to stop for either of us.

The room felt emptier without him in it, like something vital had been exhaled and never replaced. The bed was still warm where I’d been sitting, but the rest of the clubhouse was refrigerated and lifeless, full of the ghosts of adrenaline and gunpowder.

Damron stepped in, less looming than before. He’d swapped the cut for a plain jacket, but the way he filled a room didn’t change. He looked at me, then at the bed, then back to me.

“Need a ride somewhere?” he said.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say I need to go home, or I need to find Nitro, or I need to not be here, surrounded by the stink of defeat and old sweat. But the words stuck.

He waited, as if he’d seen it all before. Maybe he had.

“Thanks,” I said, voice hollow.

He nodded, moved to the window, and checked the angle of the parking lot like he expected a drone strike at any second.

“They’ll be here in twenty,” he said. “Cops, not Feds. But that’s a distinction without a difference these days.”

I almost laughed. “Will they be looking for me?”

He shook his head. “You’re the hero. Or the victim. Depends who writes the press release.” He looked at me again, a little softer. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Doc.”

I thought about the gun, the Russians, the code. The promises I’d made, the ones I’d broken. “That’s not what it feels like.”

He shrugged, and for a second, the weight of the world hung off his shoulders instead of mine.

“You want my advice?” he said.

I didn’t, but I let him talk.

“Forget him. Forget us. Find someplace quiet, dig in, and let the world eat itself without you in it.”