Fallen Empire (Dirty Empire)

We watch in silence as the car pulls away.

“She thinks I killed Mercy.”

Caleb waves my words away. “She’s got nothing. All guesses, no smoking gun.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t make our lives hell.” My phone rings in my pocket again. A second call in as many minutes; it’s important. I dig it out of my pocket. “Yeah?” I bark.

“Gabriel?” A woman’s tentative voice fills my ear. “Is that you?”

My heart pounds in my ears. “Mercy?”

She sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

I share a bewildered glance with Caleb. “Where are you?” The deep rumble of transport engines shifting gears can be heard in the background.

“At a small truck stop. In Nevada, I think? Or maybe California. I don’t know. I see license plates for both. The diner’s called…” Her voice drifts as if she’s looking around for a sign. “Bobby Joe’s.”

It takes me a moment to process this. Is this really Mercy? Her tone is oddly flat. “Where’s Bane?”

“He’s dead. I killed him.”

My jaw hangs open. The ex-military ghost who has been called unstoppable… got stopped.

By Mercy.

“I don’t know how to get home. I just really want to get home. Please help me.”

Her plea snaps me into action. “Shit, of course.” I rush for the front door, for the keys to the Lincoln. “Are you safe where you are?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Stay there. I’m on my way to you.”

“But you don’t know where I am.”

“Don’t worry. Just stay there, and I’ll find you.”

And I’ll never let you go again.

14

Mercy

“Hotel California” by the Eagles plays over the crackling speakers as I watch the familiar black SUV race toward the diner, a dust cloud trailing it. It’s been hours since I made that phone call. The sky in the far east hints at predawn light. Morning can’t be too far off.

I allow myself the first deep breath of relief in days, even as my hands tremble around my coffee mug. Gabriel found me, like he promised he would.

I’m safe.

When Bane discovered me sprawled out in the hallway and charged at me, I didn’t think, I unloaded the gun on him—five rounds into his torso. I just kept squeezing the trigger and the weapon kept firing, until it clicked empty. Even then, I kept squeezing.

He fell hard, crashing into his television, taking the entire stand and its contents down before toppling over his recliner.

I remained frozen—sitting on the floor, spent gun in hand, surrounded by the tokens of countless victims—for I can’t say how long. It was probably only seconds and yet it felt like hours, staring at his slack face and the pool of blood soaking into the cheap vinyl floor. I didn’t need to check for a pulse. His eyes told me he wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore.

And then, like a spark ignited in me, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Without any thought I grabbed a wad of money from the floor and bolted toward the van. Only, the keys weren’t anywhere in it this time. Back to the trailer I went, nausea churning inside my gut. I gingerly fished through Bane’s pockets as if he were merely sleeping and not to be disturbed. I found the keys along with a phone.

To my dismay, the phone was dead. The last thing I wanted to do was drive out into the desert at night with no line to civilization, and yet there was no way I was staying in that compound with my dead captor and countless ghosts for a second longer. I found a charging cord on the kitchen counter, next to a scrap of paper with a scrawled phone number. I remembered Bane dialing the number on that paper to call Gabriel. So, I snatched the paper and the cord, and I ran out to the van again.

The drive out of Bane’s secret hideaway was long and dark and bumpy, my knuckles white around the steering wheel. Half the time I wasn’t sure whether I was on a path, or driving aimlessly through the desert, heading straight for a cliff. But eventually I came to a proper road. I followed that until I saw lights in the distance, which brought me to this remote roadside stop, where travelers come for a hot meal and to fill up the tank. By that point I had enough juice in the phone’s battery and a signal to make a phone call.

There was only one I wanted to make.

Since then, I’ve sat in this booth for hours, ordering food I can’t stomach and coffee I can’t drink, listening to Gabriel tell me everything’s going to be fine over and over again, our conversation interrupted frequently by signal issues and dropped calls.

The Lincoln comes to a skidding stop in front of the diner. It’s still running when Gabriel jumps out of the driver’s side and runs for the door, plowing through it. A few heads turn—truckers and other early-morning workers coming in for a plate of eggs and bacon before they start their long day. Gabriel finds me in my booth by the window quickly enough, exactly where I told him I’d be waiting.