Primal (Wrong Side of the Tracks 2)

Jag led the way through an opening in the fence. “We’ll get to my shack and grab the bow and spear.”

Dane blinked, stiffening when wire scratched his nape while he scooted down and followed his man’s lead. The fence pulled at his hair too, but moments later, they were on the other side and faced the cosmic landscape of junk hills bathed in silvery moonlight.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You want to go against a gun with a spear?”

Jag glanced back at him with a scowl as they passed through a narrow tunnel made between two rusty cars. “He might not even have any bullets left. Do you really think I can’t handle one man on my own territory?”

Oh, so now it was a question of Jag’s pride—an area more dangerous than quicksand.

“That’s not the point. If the club doesn’t get to him first, they might blame us. Let them deal with it,” Dane said, but when he spotted a bright white light seeping through the bushes on the other side of the fence, he tugged at Jag, intent on getting as far away as humanly possible.

“It won’t hurt to get more weapons,” Jag whispered, lowering his head, and whether Dane wanted it or not, once they entered the junkyard, Jag became the leader of their pack.

Dane wanted to argue, but a little whine came from his phone, freezing him on the spot. He reached into his pocket, eager to switch off the device, but when he realized it was running on the last of its juices, instinct told him to call Frank as they crouched their way along a path of discarded tyres. “Lead the way,” he said, starting the call as the wind above their heads howled in warning.

Jag shook his head. “It’s not safe to talk.” But he sneaked among the shadows with ease that would have been impossible for anyone else. Where Dane saw dark towers that might topple and hold him down for Rob’s pleasure, Jag found easy passage, and that made him their only hope.

“What is it? Where are you?” Frank asked, picking up the call.

Dane lost the plot when Jag led him straight into the small clearing where they’d recently rebuilt their home. The den looked how they’d left it, and greeted them with an open doorway. How had they gotten here so fast? He’d expected climbing over a pile of junk, or crawling through some secret passage, but it seemed Jag knew many other shortcuts.

“Um… at Jag’s den,” Dane said before quickly summing up the situation, to Frank’s annoyed grunt.

Dane’s heart was hammering so loudly he feared he might miss Rob’s footsteps, but Jag was as confident as ever when he emerged out of the shack with his trusty spear in one hand and the bow and arrows in the other. He’d even put on some of his junk armor, made with elements of an old football kit as well as other pieces whose origin Dane couldn’t guess.

“Go to the containers,” Frank said. “Jag will know where that is. We’ll meet you there.”

Dane was about to communicate everything to Jag, but his mate was already enacting a plan of his own and fitted Dane with a metal breastplate made out of car parts.

“We don’t have time for this. Frank said we should go to the… containers or something? And if I wear that, I’ll just make a lot of noise. You know I’m clumsier than a baby,” Dane complained, sniffing the air as if he could possibly sense Rob’s presence from afar. The bastard might not know all the shortcuts Jag did, but he sure as hell would have followed them through the hole in the fence.

“I promised to keep you safe, and I say this isn’t optional,” Jag said in a tone that made Dane realize arguing would be futile. “The containers. Got it.”

A shot echoed through the air all too close, making Dane scream out before Jag could have put his hand over Dane’s mouth.

Fuck.

Dane didn’t need Jag’s keen senses to hear a surge of movement coming their way. A can being kicked away. Something rumbling down a hill of trash. The steady, fast rhythm of steps that already felt like kicks to Dane’s skull.

Jag stuck the spear made of pipe and a sharpened knife into Dane’s hand. Dane didn’t even question it this time, just followed him out of the clearing.

Had Rob somehow managed to put a tracker on them too or was he simply so good at navigating unfamiliar terrain? It no longer mattered. Dane grabbed the front of his armor, to keep it from hitting his thighs, and rushed down the familiar path out of their homestead, hoping Jag would find his way to Frank’s place as fast as he’d found the den.

“He’s close, I can hear him panting,” Jag whispered moments later, stretching his arm out to stop Dane. The fancy braid slid over his shoulder as he looked around, his attentive eyes shining like gold coins when hit by the moonlight.