Fuck you, Vulture.
I took the next bend at 95, praying the tires held on this shit road, praying I didn’t catch a pothole and go airborne into a cow field. My phone vibrated in the console, threetimes, then four—probably Dad, probably “checking in.” I ignored it.
The bikes crept closer. Vulture’s pal rode so tight to my left fender I half-expected him to climb in through the window. The third one dropped back, probably to box me in if I tried a U-turn. Smart. They’d watched me. They knew I wasn’t the type to go quietly.
They were toying with me, herding me up the line. It was almost…admirable, in a sociopathic sort of way.
I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek. “Motherfuckers,” I whispered, low and mean. “Pick on someone your own IQ.”
Two miles out, the terrain flattened, fields of sunburnt grass stretching to either side. I watched the green highway signs whip past: Los Alamos, 2 miles; Historical Marker; Cemetery. My heart jackhammered. Cemetery. Was that foreshadowing, or opportunity?
Vulture came up on the left, doing that thing bikers did where they leaned in, stared through the side glass, and let you know exactly how fucked you were. I gave him a quick one-finger salute, then cut hard right, laying into the brakes so the Benz fishtailed, then punched it and darted toward the next exit ramp.
The AMG howled in protest as I threaded between two battered pickup trucks at the off-ramp. In the mirror, the Leatherbacks corrected, then gunned it after me, eating up the distance with terrifying inevitability. I hammered the wheel, cursing every bad decision I’d ever made—especially the ones with a dick attached.
At the top of the exit ramp, the Mercedes nearly overshot the turn. The sign whizzed past, reading “LOS ALAMOS CEMETERY” in bullet-pocked green. Perfect. Final destination: literal death.
The cemetery gates were chained open—small blessings—so I blasted through, dust cloud in my wake. Behind me, the bikes followed, but at a slower roll, like they were savoring the hunt. I took a split second to laugh, short and sharp, and jerked the car behind a row of gnarled pine trees that lined the parking area.
I killed the engine and ducked low, chest heaving, nostrils filled with the smell of scorched brakes and adrenaline. My hands shook as I fumbled in the cupholder for my purse, my phone, anything. There wasn’t a weapon. Of course there wasn’t. Just a lipstick case, a credit card, and a pepper spray that was probably expired. Not that it would help against three armed Leatherbacks.
A shadow slid over the hood. Another. They’d boxed me in, just like I’d feared.
“Showtime,” I muttered, and reachedfor the door.
The second I cracked the door, the heat and the stink hit me. I launched myself out of the Mercedes, heels first. Only later did it occur to me that maybe Louboutins weren’t the optimal choice for fleeing an ambush, but the alternative was going barefoot, and I’d rather die than give up six hundred dollars of Italian craftsmanship to the New Mexico dirt.
The bikes idled behind the car, low and throaty, engines breathing like dragons waiting to exhale. I hugged the side of the maintenance shed and ducked behind it, praying the Leatherbacks weren’t expecting me to go on foot. My lungs burned, my heart was still in the red zone. I pounded the gravel in silence, breath quick and shallow, and skirted along the back fence, weaving between the dry, sun-bleached pine trees.
The cemetery proper was another two hundred yards past the parking lot. It sprawled over the hill, hundreds of lopsided marble slabs jutting from the weed-choked earth. The only thing separating me from the field of the dead was a rusted chain-link, and even that looked like it was one strong breeze away from collapse.
I heard the bikes cut off, the sudden silence louder than the engines had ever been. If I stayed here, Vulture and his friends would have me cornered in seconds. So I made a run for it, purse slapping against my thigh with every step.The fog, thin and ragged, rolled in off the mesa, turning the grass and stones to shadows and ghosts.
I was maybe halfway up the hill when the first shot rang out. It wasn’t close—probably a warning, or just Vulture being a cocky asshole—but it sent a shockwave through the air. Somewhere to my left, a flock of crows exploded out of the trees, filling the sky with black and noise.
I dove behind the nearest headstone, breathless and trembling. It was a tall white slab, worn smooth except for the name—Annabel Teresa Ritz, 1919-1947—and a porcelain oval portrait of a woman who looked like she’d never run from anything in her entire life.
From my crouch, I watched the bikes. Two of them idled at the edge of the lot, lights pointed at the tree line. Vulture and another guy, bulkier, with a red bandanna around his neck. The third one—Skinny, probably—was on foot, skirting the perimeter and scanning for movement.
I waited. Thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. My thighs burned; I shifted my weight, and a prickle of cold ran up my exposed leg. The fog was thicker now, curling around my knees and clinging to the marble.
I took a chance and moved—low and fast, ducking behind each headstone like a psychotic game of Whac-A-Mole. The cemetery was old, but not abandoned.Fresh graves, plastic flowers, flags set in little brass holders. The grass had gone to seed, crunchy and pale, but there was still the sense of something alive beneath all the dead.
A shot pinged off a stone maybe six feet away. I dropped flat, scraping my elbows, purse flying from my hand. The impact jarred my teeth. I rolled over, gasping, and squinted through the haze. Vulture was at the fence now, less than fifty yards away, gun out and grinning. He didn’t fire again—he just watched. Waiting to see what I’d do.
I wanted to scream, but instead, I slid on my stomach behind a line of granite baby angels and made for the nearest cover: a mausoleum, big and blocky, at the top of the hill. It looked like the kind of place you could lock yourself into and wait out the end of the world. Or at least the next five minutes.
When I got there, I flattened against the cold stone, hands shaking so hard I almost dropped my phone. I risked a look back. The bikers were fanning out, trying to flush me. I had maybe thirty seconds before they’d have me triangulated.
This was it. Time to decide: hide and pray, or make a break for the woods beyond the fence line.
I yanked off my heels, the Louboutins catching for a second on my sweaty arch, then went stocking-footed. The damp earth sent ice up my spine, but it was nothingcompared to the adrenaline burning through my chest. I clutched the shoes in one hand, phone in the other, and edged along the side of the mausoleum, feeling for any kind of door or window. Nothing. Just cold, smooth granite, and a name I couldn’t pronounce etched above the lintel.
Then I heard it, a laugh. Not Vulture’s, not a biker’s. A different voice, higher, slick with tequila and stupidity.
“Hey! Look what we got here.”
It came from the far side of the graveyard, near the fence line. For half a second, I thought maybe the cavalry had arrived. But then I saw them, four figures, staggering, dressed in denim and flannel, beers in hand. Local losers, probably skipping out on a funeral or just getting drunk among the dead.