— Chapter 60 —

=||=||=

I'd always been a firm believer that everyone was capable of dying twice.

Once at the very end, and once after losing everything.

I'd died once before... and sometimes, when I closed my eyes for long enough, I could see it. A pool of water. Drowning. Drowning, and yet never completely dead. And sometimes, when I felt that water seeping into my lungs and ghosting along my fingertips, I was reminded of what dying felt like.

Cold.

Lonely.

Quiet.

For a moment there, I'd convinced myself that there was no coming back. That once you lost everything, you lost yourself—and you could never be the same again. Because a part of you was gone. The same part of you that could feel love and laughter and happiness... and all that remained afterward was a hollow vessel, empty and broken. A shell.

I killed my old self, but the new me was never better.

There's a kind of freedom in being dead. In having nothing left to lose. For one, change didn't bother me like it used to—things came and went, like they always came and went, but it didn't matter anymore. People, places, material things... none of it mattered. The word living itself lost meaning. We're all dead in the end, I used to think, so what's the fucking point? Who cares?

But something was different. On those asphalt roads, in that race... something changed.

For a small, fleeting moment... I didn't want to die.

Somewhere, somehow, I found myself thinking that if I just passed one more turn, got through one more corner, and avoided those civilians without getting us all killed... then it would be okay. It would be okay, because I'd get another chance to see him again. To apologize.

Elliot was in my corner. For the first time in a long time, I had something to lose. And I didn't care about living so much, but for god's sake—I didn't want to die either.

I can suffer through it for a while, I supposed.

For him.

Coming into the last corner of the track they'd laid out for us, I'd been holding strong ahead of the other riders. Two of them had fallen behind, with one colliding into a wall and the other toppling his bike to avoid a passing car.

They played on the aggressive for the whole race.

Of course, they didn't have the speed on their bikes that mine did, but they made damn sure not to give me any chances to pass them. Anytime I got too close they would veer into my way and break-test me, fighting tooth and nail not to let me in front.

If only I'd realized that the game was rigged.

Midas cheated.

I thought something was off when the drones didn't follow us into the tunnel. Things were fine on the first hundred yards in; I managed to hang onto first place by the skin of my teeth. But I didn't even get halfway through that tunnel before one of the idiots behind me veered their front wheel to my rear.

Our two bikes toppled. Mine hit the cement wall. The other turned into scrap metal as it skid to a stop on the asphalt, and I didn't register that I was lying in the middle of the road until I found the strength to pull my helmet off. The last motorcycle halted not far ahead of me.

I thought it was an accident at first. That shit had gone wrong, or that someone had gotten themselves killed.

I didn't realize it was a setup until I felt myself being dragged up off the floor.

They didn't even give me a chance to react as a leather-padded fist collided with my face. Another rider hunched me over to shove his knee in my gut. Coughing up blood, I was lucky to hear them snapping at each other over all the buzzing in my head.

"Hurry up," one hissed. "If we don't kill him, we don't get fucking paid."

His stocky partner scoffed. "Why's that old man want him dead anyways? I thought he wanted this stupid shithead to win."

"Who cares." The first man beat his fist into the side of my jaw and pulled a gun from the back of his pants. "Stop struggling."

I thought for sure my nose was bleeding. Something was definitely bleeding. They didn't let up off the blows and they didn't waste time pulling their punches. My energy was gone. I could have let them kill me, sure, and I could have let them have their way... but I just didn't.

In fact, I think I nearly killed them.

"Get his arms!" the stockier one yelled.

I slammed my helmet into his head. The biker veered back at the force. He had his helmet on, so I figured all he suffered was a little confusion, but it bought me enough time to shove the other rider down and knee him in his tinted visor. It shattered. He pummeled his fist into my side, conveniently the same side where my stitches had recently been removed, and his friend got the privilege of striking my jaw with the palm of his hand.

"Don't you shoot that fucking gun!" the other hissed, knowing full well he was in the line of fire. If only his buddy had bothered to listen.

I heard the firearm go off and jolted with adrenaline. Alarm bells were ringing in my brain. The bullet didn't hit me—not that I knew of at least, but for a second there I thought for sure I was a dead man.

If only my father could see me now, getting my ass absolutely handed to me. No doubt he'd have been shaking his head in disappointment. Thought I taught you better, kid, he'd say. What did I tell you about fighting dirty?

And I'd answer that there was no such thing as a dirty fight. You either live or die... and you only get one chance to choose.

Fighting for a breath, I ducked beneath an oncoming fist and maneuvered behind the first attacker. Tackling the gun out of his grasp, I kicked it a good distance away before it hit the floor. Hooking my arm around his neck and pulling his chin up over my shoulder, I pressed down on his throat until I was sure I'd cut off the last of the poor fucker's air supply. I elbowed him in the side—once, twice, three times—and shoved his mass onto the other oncoming biker.

I didn't give them the chance to get their shit together. My hand struck the stockier biker's jugular. His friend took a grip on my hair and figured he'd pay me back by putting me in a headlock, and the stocky biker came up to finish the job.

Instead, I kicked out—twice, exactly. One foot got the bastard right in the groin. The other kicked him across his helmet. When I saw his head bounce off the floor, I knew for sure he wouldn't be coming up for a while.

Fuzzy black spots stained my vision. Digging my fingers beneath the last rider's arm and elbowing him in the side, I hit the back of my head against his nose and fought to get air into my lungs for long enough to stay conscious. With his grip loosened, I let him feel my weight and dropped myself down, hunching him over in the process and throwing him onto the ground.

The biker groaned. I kicked the helmet off his head and pulled off my leather gloves. Standing over his body, I pummelled my fist against his jaw until I couldn't tell whether the blood on my knuckles was his or mine.

His face was battered and mangled and fucked-up... but at least he wasn't dead.

That wasn't a blessing he was prepared to give me.

"Tell your mother I send my condolences," I muttered, wiping away the blood under my nose. "Poor woman's never going to recognize your fuckin' face."

Leaving them to writhe on the asphalt, I groaned against my pain and went to find the gun discarded on the road. It felt foreign in my hands. Wrong. Burning... like I had acid in the grooves of my fingers. The silver metal of a bullet stared me right back in the face when I checked the gun's chamber.

Midas wants me dead.

Those four words hadn't truly registered in my head up until that point. With my body a wreck, I dragged myself to the nearest functioning motorcycle and lugged my battered ass on board.

He threatened the Stray Dogs. He threatened Elliot—and he almost had me killed.

Midas changed the game.

Ripping into the road, I got myself out of that tunnel and found train tracks waiting for me on the other side. Whatever this place was, it was secluded and from the looks of things, abandoned. Part of it met the shore of commercial docks, and part of it was surrounded by hills to keep the place out of view. Aside from the tunnel, a few severed train tracks and a gravel road, there weren't many ways to get in and out.

Of all the places to race, they picked the hardest one to find. I wished that I'd thought of it. That I'd found it sooner.

"Here they come now!" The faint voice of an announcer carried through the air. Coming up on the crowd, I watched people shove and push and claw their way to catch sight of me, their yelling a mind-numbing drill in my ears. "Who is that coming through the other side? Lord-fucking-almighty, who the hell is coming through that tunnel? Could it be? Is that—?"

He didn't get to finish.

I pointed the gun in my hands to the sky and fired.

I'd only fired a gun once before in my life. I knew how to load them, how to clean them, how to assemble and disassemble them... but I hadn't ever used one since my father died.

It was a jolt to the system. Everything stopped. My muscles tensed, my head emptied, my chest contracted and my lungs were devoid of air—I still gasped for it anyway. The faint echoes of a single round of gunfire looped over and over in my head. My hands trembled, and I could feel blood on my fingertips from where I was clutching my wounded side. There was a good chance I was having a panic attack.

People were screaming. People were a blur. I watched them running in all directions, worrying for their lives, but I didn't move. Not once. Not until the crowd around me dispersed enough for me to understand what I was looking at.

To my right, backed by security with submachine guns pointed my way, stood Midas, grinning like a feral fucking cat.

Chains was the real surprise. Standing a few yards down and holding a Glock in his hands, I watched his yelling get drowned out by the panic of the crowd.

But he wasn't calling for me. He was gesturing to something in the distance.

To the left of my vision, not far from where Midas and his security were standing, I caught the flash of a Stray Dogs jacket. Its wearer was curled over with their hands covering their ears, big eyes peering out beneath pale-brown hair.

Elliot.

Just like that, the world went sideways. I saw Midas and the armed guns behind him. I didn't think; I didn't care to. Acting on my reflexes, I climbed off that fucking motorcycle and went running Elliot's way.

I had to get to him first. I had to get him away from this mess. I had to keep him safe.

He found me.

"Noah!" Elliot called, basically running into his arms. I hadn't realized just how much I missed the sound of his voice.

"I'm here, I'm here." The words tumbled out of my mouth between broken breaths. "Are you okay?"

He frowned, "Me? Noah, you're bleeding!"

I watched him do his best to carry some of my weight, hooking his arm beneath mine. He patted my cheek and felt around with his hand, trying to find my injuries. "That bad, huh?" I wheezed, canines sticking out of my smirk.

"We have to get out of here," he stammered, ignoring me. "Before they—"

My head shook quickly. "No," I insisted. "I can't leave yet."

"They've got guns!"

I gripped his hands and gave him a desperate glance, silently pleading for him to listen. Chains was coming up on us in the distance.

"Elliot, go with Chains," I told the pretty bartender, clasping his gentle fingers beneath my own. "Get out of here. Get out now. Please."

I could see the panic swarming through those darling eyes of his. "What?" he stammered. "But we can't just leave y—"

I cupped his cheeks and drew in a breath.

"Trust me, Alley Cat," I pleaded. "Go. I'll be okay."

His hazel irises wavered for just a brief moment before finally giving in. I watched him run off with Chains in the other direction just as Midas and his security were storming my way.

"Drop the gun!" One of his goons yelled, watching me through the sight of his weapon.

I grumbled under my breath and kicked my gun away.

"Hands behind your head!" They barked again. I could hardly process the instruction.

Midas clapped his hands together. "What a fantastic race that was!" He jeered. "How on earth you managed to survive is beyond me, truly!"

"I won that race, Midas, and whatever's in those bags is coming home with me."

Midas laughed as if he found the notion absurd. "You didn't win anything. That prize money is for people who succeed fair and square."

"That race was rigged from the start and you know it. You're only sorry I didn't cross that finish line in a goddamn body bag."

"You're accusing me of cheating?" The gangster scoffed, amused. "An audacious claim."

I wondered, "Is it all about the money to you? Did you think that you could fool some gullible people into betting heavy on me just so you could profit when your boys turned me to roadkill? Is that it?"

He raised a brow and contemplated it for a brief moment.

"Like I said on the night we first met—it's just business." He shrugged. "Skin-deep. And you, my friend, are just an obstacle."

"And Sage? Was she another obstacle or did you just buy her off?"

"An obstacle, no. That charming young woman just knows a good business venture when she sees one, and it never hurts to have friends with connections. Suffice to say... not everything revolves around you, Edge."

Sadly enough, I wasn't surprised by his answer. Sage always did have a tendency to let money and business rule over things like ethics and loyalty.

I drew in a breath.

"You're getting people killed, Midas."

He shouted back, "So what?!"

The switch in his demeanor forced my mouth shut.

"Boston is no different from any other city in this god-forsaken country!" he spat. "It's crooked, right down to its dirty cops and the biker clubs that run its streets. You might think there's something here worth protecting, but all I see is a crime-infested swamp with too many mouths to feed."

My brows pressed together. "So you think your version of 'population control' is doing everyone a favor?"

"People die every day! What difference does it make whether it's sooner or later?" He gritted his teeth. "I'm not evil, son. I just offer incredible odds. Ordinary individuals come here to bet with pocket change and walk out with thousands. All the money in these duffle bags goes back to the people in one way or another—people like me, who never knew where their next meal was coming from or if they'd be able to sleep with a goddamn roof over their head. And from what I hear... that used to be you, Edge. Your family."

My stomach caught in my throat.

My fingers itched. My skin crawled. I had a million thoughts in my head and every one of them was as disgusted with him as the other.

I spoke, "The people you're killing have families of their own. They've got parents, siblings, kids... people that depend on them. You don't have the right to decide that their lives mean nothing."

He laughed into the air.

"What the hell do you care? Tell me—why does any of this matter to you?" Midas barked. "You've lived the last ten years of your life wanting to die, and yet here you are, trying to protect the lives of others. Tell you what—there's a fine line between stupidity and hypocrisy my friend, and you'd be surprised at how often the two go hand in hand."

My fists clenched by my sides. "Your ends don't justify your means, Midas. I won't let you hurt these people."

His grin tugged to each end of his crooked face, devilish eyes slicing through me.

"I won't let you stand in my way."

The roar of a heavy engine echoed in the background. Midas' lackeys, with their guns still aimed for me and ready to fire, inched closer. I sucked a breath in through my teeth.

Well, you fucked that one up, I thought to myself, taking a few hesitant steps backward. Not the worst way to go.

Midas snarled at his security. "For god's sake, somebody shoot him!"

I blinked my eyes closed, expecting a downpour of bullets to come my way. A deep breath filled my lungs. Sounds of exploding gunfire reduced only to flat, monotone ringing.

It's so loud. My hands felt like they were burning. There's blood on your hands. The darkness around me began to form shapes—shapes of old furniture and a faceless silhouette bleeding out onto a carpet racked with cigarette burns. Look at your hands.

Get out of my head.

My thoughts screamed back, Look at your hands!

Racked with terror, I forced my eyes open, too panicked to question how I was even still alive to do it. The furniture had evaporated and the silhouette was gone. I was hunched down to the ground with my hands were mere inches from my face...

...and they were splattered with blood.

My blood.

"What the hell are you waiting for!" a voice howled over the gunfire. "Edge! Edge, get in the fucking car!"

Reality hit me like a fucking freight train.

A wall of smoke was circling around us, plumes reaching for the night sky and blinding the faint shadows of Midas' oncoming security. Their guns flashed a hundred bullets a minute. Shielding me from the onslaught was a four-door sports car—and Chains was sitting halfway out of its passenger-side window, firing bullets of his own from a standard-issue handgun.

He screamed again, "Get in the car or we're all fucking fucked!"

My legs moved on their own. I tugged open the car door and stumbled inside, only to be forced back into a leather seat once the car burst into movement. Squealing tires damn near rendered me deaf. "Go, go!" I managed to catch Chains yell.

There's so much blood on your hands. Don't you feel guilty?

Gentle palms grazed my cheeks. Crimson blood poisoned the grooves of my fingers. A voice cried, "Noah, are you okay? Oh, please—tell me you're okay."

I whispered, "Get out of my head."

A shock of cold splashed down on my skin before I could fall unconscious. Water. I lurched up in my seat just as a familiar woman's voice ordered, "Not yet! Sleep when you're dead!"

Sage?

I was seeing everything in high resolution. We were in a sports car. Sage was in the driver's seat with one hand on the steering wheel, and the other holding a now-empty plastic water bottle. Chains, beside her, had his arm out the window whilst firing at the enemy behind us. His ammo didn't last long.

In the back seat with me and covering his head, Elliot.

"What the fuck!" I called, trying to piece together whatever the hell was going on. Bullets were piercing through the windshield, and glass was flying over our heads. "Sage, what the fuck are you doing?"

She spun the car around and kicked it into high gear. "Go-karting," she deadpanned. "What the hell does it look like I'm doing? Saving you three fools!"

I hissed to her, "Whose fucking side are you on?"

"Who the fuck cares?" Chains interrupted. "Haul ass, Princess!"