Chapter 239
Wesley
I ran.
Not the careful, calculated movements I'd learned in the past few months—this was pure, animal panic. My feet pounded against the manicured lawn of the estate, each impact sending shockwaves through my legs. Behind me, the gunfire had stopped, but somehow that silence was worse. It meant they were regrouping. It meant Miles had—
No. Don't think about it. Keep moving.
The tree line loomed ahead, a dark promise of cover. My lungs burned. My ribs ached where Felix's elbow had caught me during the struggle. But none of that mattered. Miles had given me this chance. Miles, who I'd fought in that warehouse basement on my first night with the Brotherhood. Miles, whose scarred face I'd once seen as just another obstacle to prove myself against.
Miles, who'd just taken a bullet meant for me.
"Boss! Go!" His voice echoed in my head, that final shout before he'd turned his gun on the police. Before he'd chosen to die so I could live.
My throat tightened. I stumbled over a root, caught myself against a tree trunk. The rough bark bit into my palm, grounding me in the present. In the fact that I was still breathing, still moving, still had a chance to make this right.
If I died here, Miles's sacrifice meant nothing.
If I got caught, everything he'd believed about me—that I was worth following, worth dying for—would be proven wrong.
I broke through the tree line and found myself on the narrow service road that ran along the western edge of the estate. The van was exactly where I'd left it, parked in the shadow of an old storage shed that hadn't been used in years. I'd stashed it here three days ago, right after Lance had asked me to help with Felix. A backup plan. An escape route.
Smart. Practical. The kind of thing the new Wesley would do.
I approached cautiously, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the van, sitting quiet and still under the cold moonlight. I pulled the keys from my pocket, fingers numb with cold and adrenaline, and reached for the door handle.
Then I froze.
Something was wrong.
I couldn't put my finger on it at first. The van looked exactly as I'd left it—same dented bumper, same cracked windshield, same rust spots eating through the paint. But there was something... off. A detail that didn't fit.
I pressed my hand against the driver's seat through the half-open window.
Warm.
Not hot. Not even particularly warm. Just... not cold. Not freezing like it should have been after sitting out here for hours in the middle of a winter night.
My blood turned to ice.
Someone had been sitting here. Recently. Within the last few minutes.
I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned and dropped into a crouch, pressing myself against the side of the van. My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it over the distant sirens. Every instinct I'd developed over the past few weeks was screaming at me to run, to get the hell away from this van and this road and this whole goddamn situation.
But I forced myself to stay still. To think.
If someone had been here—if someone was waiting for me—then running blind would only get me killed. I needed to know what I was dealing with. Needed to understand the trap before I could figure out how to avoid it.
Moving as quietly as I could, I circled around to the back of the shed and crouched behind a large boulder that jutted out from the hillside. From here, I had a clear view of the van and the road beyond. And from here, I waited.
It didn't take long.
Five minutes. Maybe less. Then I heard them—voices, rough and male, echoing through the darkness.
"Where the hell is this guy? Thomas said he'd come running back here the second he got clear of the cops."
"Fuck, I told you we should've stayed put! You assholes just had to go take a piss break, didn't you? What if he came through while we were gone?"
"Relax. The van's still here, isn't it? If he'd shown up, he would've driven off. And he couldn't have gotten far—we fucked up the tires real good."