“Of course it’s one of these,” Travis mutters. “No pay-at-the-pump. Just vibes.”
Beau scans the lot with the focus of someone assessing a kill zone. His gaze moves from the dark corners of the property to the highway entrance, then to the building itself. His hand hovers near his waistband.
“This’ll do. Get what we need and get out.”
He looks at me. “Stay in the car.”
I don’t argue. Pain is flaring again, radiating down my ribs and into my back.
Beau cracks the door.
Then freezes.
Inside the store, two cops stand at the counter. Coffee cups in hand. Laughing with the cashier. Relaxed and unhurried like they have nowhere else to be.
Beau shuts the door without a word.
Travis follows his line of sight through the windshield and lets out a pained groan. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Beau doesn’t blink. “We need fuel. If we stall on the highway, we’re dead. You know that.”
“So we just hang out until Donut Patrol clears out?”
“We’re not making a move until they’re gone,” Beau says. “Or one of us ends up in cuffs.”
Travis leans back against the seat, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This is actually insane. I was supposed to be coding right now. Drinking overpriced matcha. Not dodging murder charges and highway patrol.”
Beau ignores him, eyes still locked on the store. “They’re not leaving.”
“They’re nesting,” Travis says. “This is nesting behavior. They’re building a fucking home in there.”
We wait.
The cops linger. They laugh. They sip their coffee like it is a social hour instead of the edge of a manhunt.
Beau leans forward slightly. “They don’t recognize us, yet.”
Travis shifts in his seat. “So we’re just supposed to wait?”
Beau turns his head slowly. “You’re the only one in this car without a nationwide APB and a felony record.”
Travis blinks. “You want me to go in there?”
“Pay for the gas. Don’t be weird.”
“I’m literally the definition of weird under pressure.”
“Then fake normal,” Beau says flatly. “Buy a Gatorade while you’re at it.”
Travis groans and shoves the door open. “If I get arrested, I’m snitching.”
He crosses the lot with careful casualness, shoulders loose, pace unhurried. Inside, he goes straight to the register, offers the cashier a stiff half-smile, and hands over cash. Beau and I watch from the car.
Travis finishes the transaction, grabs a bottle of Gatorade from the cooler, and steps back outside. He walks straight to the pump on the driver’s side and starts fueling the car.
He has just squeezed the handle when one of the cops inside looks up.
And locks eyes with me through the windshield.
