She knew that much. Every step she had taken to get here had felt wrong and right at the same time. She had run from the town behind her, from the narrow streets and shuttered houses, from the eyes that watched her too closely and the voices that never quite believed her. She had run from the darkness that followed her no matter where she went, the kind of darkness that didn’t disappear when the sun came up.
The truck stop had been a desperate choice.
People came here. People meant witnesses. And witnesses—Hannah had learned—sometimes made bad things hesitate.
Her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she shifted her weight, trying to keep the blood moving in her legs. She could feel the cold creeping up, settling into her bones. Her stomach twisted painfully, empty and tight, but hunger felt distant compared to the fear humming through her chest.
She glanced toward the line of trucks parked farther back in the lot.
Engines idled. Exhaust rose in pale clouds. Curtains were drawn. Doors stayed closed.
Someone was always awake at a truck stop.
But no one was watching her.
The wind gusted again, harder this time, nearly knocking her off balance. She stumbled, catching herself on a rusted metal post near the pumps. The metal burned against her skin, ice-cold and unforgiving.
That was when she felt it.
The shift.
The sudden, unmistakable sensation of not being alone anymore.
Hannah froze.
Her breath hitched as her eyes slid toward the darker edge of the lot, where the neon light couldn’t quite reach. The shadows there were thicker, deeper, moving strangely as the wind stirred trash and tumbleweed across the ground.
Then he stepped forward.
A man emerged from the darkness with slow, deliberate steps, as if he had all the time in the world. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the truck stop lights. In his hands, he carried a baseball bat, gripping it loosely, swinging it in an easy arc that made Hannah’s heart slam violently against her ribs.
The bat scraped lightly against the ground as he walked, the sound slicing through the wind like a warning.
Hannah couldn’t move.
Her body locked in place, muscles refusing to respond. Her mind screamed at her to run, to hide, to do something—but fear pressed down on her so heavily it felt like she was sinking into the asphalt itself.
The man’s eyes glinted when he stepped into the light.
They were wrong.
Too focused. Too interested.
A smile tugged at his mouth, thin and humorless. He rolled his shoulders once, like someone loosening up before a game.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough and amused, “what do we have here?”
Hannah’s throat tightened painfully. She tried to speak, to scream, but no sound came out.
Behind him, the trucks continued to idle. No doors opened. No voices called out. Either no one saw what was happening—or they saw and chose not to get involved.
The man took another step closer.
Then another.
The bat swung lazily at his side, the tip tracing half-circles in the air. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to. The confidence in his posture told Hannah everything she needed to know.
He thought he already owned this moment.
“You lost, little thing?” he asked, stopping just a few yards away. “Or you lookin’ for trouble?”
Hannah shook her head, barely noticeable.
Her bare feet burned against the ice. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst. The wind howled louder, ripping through the lot like it was trying to drown out whatever came next.
The man tilted his head, studying her, his gaze flicking over her torn coat, her bare feet, the way her hands trembled.
“Aw,” he said softly. “Ain’t anyone ever tell you not to wander off alone?”
He raised the bat slightly.
Not to strike yet.
Just enough to make sure she understood what he was capable of.
That was when the sound cut through the night.
A low rumble.
Deep. Mechanical. Growing fast.
The man stiffened, his attention snapping away from Hannah toward the far end of the lot.
The rumble became a roar.
A motorcycle burst into view, headlights blazing, tires screeching as they hit the icy pavement. The engine’s growl echoed violently across the empty desert, bouncing off metal and concrete, drowning out the wind itself.
The bike slid to a controlled stop between Hannah and the man, the sudden movement sending ice skittering across the asphalt.
The rider swung his leg over and stood.
Captain Jackson “Jack” Monroe.
Even before he removed his helmet, his presence filled the space. He was tall, powerfully built, his movements calm and precise. His leather jacket bore the unmistakable patch of the Iron Vultures Motorcycle Club, worn and weathered, a symbol known far beyond this stretch of highway.
Jack pulled off his helmet slowly, revealing steel-gray eyes and a face carved by years of hard living. His expression was neutral, almost relaxed—but there was something in the way he stood that made the air feel heavier, charged.
The man with the bat took an involuntary step back.
Then the sound came again.
Another engine.
Then another.
Headlights flared to life around the edges of the lot as motorcycles rolled in one by one, forming a loose, deliberate circle. Riders dismounted silently, boots crunching against ice and gravel. No shouting. No threats.
Just presence.
The Iron Vultures had arrived.
Hannah stood perfectly still, her small body trembling as warmth and terror collided inside her chest. She didn’t know who these men were. She didn’t know what would happen next.
But for the first time that night, she wasn’t alone anymore.
And the frozen truck stop felt like it was holding its breath.
