He studied her a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you.”
She didn’t tell him that saving lives used to be her profession, or that a man named Victor Hale had taken everything from her when she refused to play along with his corruption, or that hiding here was never meant to be permanent, just survivable.
Morning arrived quietly.
The storm had passed, leaving the world buried and gleaming under pale winter light, and Clara woke to a sound that didn’t belong in silence, a distant thunder that grew and multiplied until the ground itself seemed to hum.
Engines.
She opened the door and stopped cold.
Motorcycles lined the highway as far as she could see, chrome and steel catching sunlight, rows upon rows stretching into the distance, riders standing beside them, waiting, and Marcus stepped up beside her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“They heard what you did,” he said.
“How many?” she whispered.
“About fifteen hundred.”
