Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Which, now that I think about it, was probably the point.
Butch holds my gaze for three more seconds, then nods once and turns back to his students.
"Again," he tells them. "And this time, breathe through it."
I walk away, the sound of renewed gunfire following me across the compound.
I head toward the garage next—a massive steel building with its bay doors thrown open. The noise hits me before I even cross the threshold: metal on metal, engines revving, air compressors hissing.
Inside, the space is cavernous. Motorcycles in various states of repair line the concrete floor. Some are gleaming beasts ready for the road, others just skeletons of metal and parts. The air smells like gasoline and something else—something metallic and masculine that smells distinctly of men.
Unlike the bar or the shooting range, this place feels alive. Men move with purpose, calling to each other over the din, passing tools back and forth. It reminds me of the ranch when we're preparing for a cattle drive—that same focused energy, that same invisible choreography.
Six men notice me immediately, heads turning in sequence like dominoes falling. The conversations don't stop completely, but they quiet, words tapering off mid-sentence.
The nearest man is wearing worn jeans and work boots caked with grease and dirt. The denim around the ankles is so saturated with oil it looks black. He looks at me as I approach, his expression blank. His face is smeared with grease and his dark hair is pulled back into a long braid.
"Hello…" I read the name-tag patch on his cut. "Ratchet." Feeling a tiny bit smug that I've come up with a cheat sheet. It's like placards at a formal dinner. "I'm looking for Legion. Have you seen him?"
Ratchet wipes his hand on his thigh, leaving a fresh streak of black. His eyes move over me deliberately, from my borrowed boots, to my borrowed jacket, to my scabbing wrist. It's not a sexual assessment—it's mechanical. Like he's trying to identify make and model, checking for recalls or defects.
"Haven't seen him," he says finally, and there's no hostility in it. Just fact.
I glance behind me, feeling the weight of eyes. The other mechanics have resumed their work, but they're watching. Not staring, not leering, just... observing. There's nothing sharp in their attention, no judgment or threat. But no warmth either.
Just curiosity. Like I'm a new part waiting to prove it fits.
"If you do see him," I say, "tell him I'm looking for him."
Ratchet nods once, then slides back into his work without another word.
I wander for a few minutes. Just looking around the dusty compound, hoping for a glimpse of the man I love. And I’m about to give up and go back to the room and wait him out, when I catch a whiff of something different—fabric softener and soap cutting through the diesel and dust.
Following my nose, I round the corner of another building and spot a squat cinderblock structure with steam puffing from vents along the ground.
The laundry room.
Looking through the windows I see industrial washers thumping against the concrete floors and massive dryers rumbling with heat.
I let out a breath, because even though I didn't do my own laundry growing up, it's something I understand.
It's also a jackpot. Because Mercy is here, standing beside a folding table, her small hands smoothing wrinkles from a stack of white towels. Next to her is the woman who gave me the denim jacket I'm wearing now.
When I open the door, the air is immediately thick with humidity, cooled with blasting AC, and it smells like clean cotton.
"Savannah!" Mercy's face lights up when she sees me, and it's the first genuinely happy reaction I've gotten since I started this search.
"Hey," I say, stepping inside. The door swings shut behind me, muffling the compound noise. AC washes over me like falling snow. "You work here now?"
Mercy nods proudly. "I'm the official towel folder. And I get to listen to audiobooks." She points to a small speaker on the shelf. "We just finished a mystery where the Bonekiller Murderer was caught by the fresh-faced FBI agent. Next, we're gonna listen to Harry Potter."
The woman in charge glances up from her folding. Her eyes linger on my jacket, and I suddenly feel self-conscious.
"Thank you again," I say, touching the denim. "For the jacket. I didn't have a chance to tell you earlier. I didn't really understand what was happening."
She waves me off. "It was in lost and found for months. No big deal. I'm Giselle, by the way. Dusty's woman."
"Nice to meet you. I'm looking for Legion. Have either of you seen him?"
Mercy's says, "He dropped me off here like an hour ago. Then he walked that way." She points toward the eastern edge of the compound.
"Toward the old fence line?" Giselle asks, and Mercy nods.
Giselle turns to me. "There's an old hunting blind out that way. People go there sometimes." She pauses, selecting her words carefully. "For privacy."