Page 14 of Charging Dodge

“What else do you need to know, Dodge? I told you everything last night,” she murmurs. Her voice wavers, barely audible against the breeze drifting across the yard. She sinks further into the top patio step, her shoulders slumping. She hunches over, her fingernails digging into the splintered wood as she picks at a loose sliver of timber. She keeps her head bowed, effectively masking her face from me. Every line of her body speaks of a need to retreat, a barricade against the reality she’s forced to confront. Sunlight catches the stray strands of her hair, highlighting the exhaustion lurking inside of her, yet the warmth offers her no solace. She seems diminished, the earlier blaze of defiance extinguished by the endless miles and the terror of our situation. All that remains is the fatigue of someone who’s spent too many nights fleeing what is coming.

My tone closely resembles an interrogator as I ask, “Did your parents ever mention a specific name, someone you should seek out should something happen to them?”

“No, not really,” she answers, her voice barely rising above the dry rustle of the wind as she keeps her chin tucked down, slowly shaking her head from one side to the other in total defeat.

“Think back, think hard, Adalynn,” I command, my voice dropping an octave, heavy with the urgency of our situation. I lean forward, the wood groaning beneath my weight, trying to cut through the thick wall of exhaustion she’s built around herself. “There had to be a person or a place mentioned, a safety net for you to fall back on in case something bad came calling. A cornered man like your father doesn’t just copy incriminating files without establishing a backup plan.”

She keeps her head bowed, her fingertips still tracing the splintered texture of the top step. Morning light filters through skeletal trees, casting long shadows across her hunched body. Every line of her body radiates a desperate need to retreat from my questions, but we both know running blindly is no longer an option. The silence between us stretches thin, punctured only by the distant chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of dry leaves blowing in the wind.

Her shoulders shake as she lifts her chin, meeting my gaze with wide, dark eyes. When she speaks, the words get caught in her dry throat, reduced to a fragile whisper. “I want to remember. I really do. But everything spiraled out of control so fast after that day. If there was ever a name mentioned, it’s been buried under the trauma of watching our world vanish into blood and ash.”

“Shut your eyes,” I instruct, watching the rapid movement of her eyelids as she complies. “Try to recall the quiet conversations you caught between your mother and father. Think back to the very beginning, when did you first sense that danger was closing in?”

“Nearly a year ago,” she says, her tone shaky as her tongue swipes out and she licks her bottom lip. “Dad came home, he was anxious and pale.”

“Anxious how?” I probe, needing her to dig deep so the memories start coming back like flash cards in her mind.

“He was flushed, pacing, always looking out the window and watching the traffic going up and down the street,” she murmurs.

“Is there anything else that makes you curious about his mental state, Adalynn?”

“Nothing stands out,” she replies. Then, her gaze sharpens suddenly as she adds, “Except he spent hours on secretive phone calls behind locked doors, my mother never left his side during those conversations.”

“Alright, we’re finally making progress. Did a name or a location ever come up when he spoke to this person?”

“I really don’t know… maybe Mark or Martin?” Frustrated by the fuzziness of her memory, she throws her arms up in the air, waving them around. “I’m certain it began with an M, and there was definitely an A right after it.”

I yank my phone from my pocket and pull up the secure thread with Phoenix. While she rattles off her father’s digits, I punch them into the message and command our tech guru to start digging into the call logs. I tell him to scan for any contact starting with the letter M that has a ‘Ma’ sound to the name, knowing that if there’s a lead to be found in the digital noise, he’s the only one who can unearth it.

“I didn’t give you much to work with, did I?” she asks, sounding defeated.

“Sometimes, less is more. It doesn’t make us sort through endless bullshit,” I tell her, sliding the phone back into the pocket of my leather cut. I watch the tight lines of exhaustion on her face shift slightly as the reassurance sinks in. A couple of letters and a rough fragment of a memory might feel like nothing to her, but to a guy like Phoenix, it’s a solid digital blueprint to lock onto. It gives our tech guy a narrow target to scan in the call logs instead of forcing him to sift through a bottomless pit of data. The patio swing groans softly under my weight as I lean back, keeping my steady gaze fixed on her hunched figure on the top step. She keeps her head bowed while the warm morning breeze drifts across the yard. Out back, the distant, faint sounds of Noah, Amelia, and Carter helping Mom with the animals drift into the quiet stillness. For the first time since we crossed paths at the rest stop, we aren’t just burning through gas, running blindly on empty, and praying for a miracle down the interstate. We’re actually gathering intel and building a real defense to keep the killers at bay.

“Are we done, Dodge? My brain needs a reprieve.”

“We’re done, Adalynn. If I have any further questions, I’ll come find you.”

Offering a soft, “Thank you,” she rises and walks around toward the back of the house. Left alone, I take in the quiet moment, fully aware that I should quit stalling and begin the home repairs I told my mother I would handle during my visit.

Following a brief period of quiet reflection, I rise and walk toward the storage shed where the tools are stored. The sound of laughter draws my attention as I unlock the padlock, observing Noah pursuing Amelia across the open field. He grips something in his grasp, but from this far away, the object remains obscured. Whatever it turns out to be, the little girl seems entirely unimpressed. A quiet chuckle escapes me as I unfasten the latch, stepping inside to retrieve the handyman toolbox I maintain on the property.

With a slow shake of my head, a solitary thought crosses my mind. “What exactly have you gotten yourself into, Dodge?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Adalynn

A few days have passed since we reached the quiet, peaceful sanctuary of Dodge’s mother's house, yet I remain hyper-vigilant, jumping at the refrigerator's steady drone and every groan of the floorboards. The open, tranquil countryside was meant to provide a comforting escape from the exhausting journey we endured, but my heart is still trapped in a state of pure survival. Each sudden sound transforms into an immediate danger, a phantom echo of the heavy boots and cracking wood that tore our world apart in Colorado. With my muscles tense and on high alert, I continuously watch the windows, anticipating the next blow and dreading the moment our past finally overtakes us.

Miranda has been incredibly kind, opening her home and piling our plates high with food, treating us with a motherly tenderness that makes my chest ache for the parents we lost. Noah and Amelia are slowly adjusting, their haunted expressions occasionally giving way to brief sparks of childhood curiosity as they help her feed the animals and chase each other across the open fields. Yet, I can't shake the terrifying reality of our situation—we are entirely dependent on a dangerous biker and a motorcycle club because the outside world has become a merciless butcher shop. We are running on borrowed time, hiding under a false name, while faceless killers continue their ruthless clean-up job across state lines.

Carter sticks close to Dodge as he picks up tips on fixing things around the place. It’s a strange sight to witness. The hulking, gritty leader of the Saint’s Outaws looms in his worn leather vest right beside my fourteen-year-old brother. Carter tries his best to play the grown-up role. He keeps his posture stiff while clutching the extra handgun Dodge handed over, eager to keep us safe no matter what. Dodge doesn’t blink at the kid’s tough act. He uses a rough, steady hand to guide him, showing him how to stay invisible, how to scan the dark corners, and how to identify a threat before it moves. Even though I can’t explain why, this scary newcomer decided to be our foundation and our armor, vowing to keep the predators away until the very end.

A painful tug-of-war plays out in my chest. I feel awful watching Carter forfeit his youth to carry this weight, yet I’m fiercely thankful he’s tough enough to manage it. It’s a lousy bargain. Watching him force himself to mature so quickly makes my stomach churn. I want to yank him away, tuck him back into a normal life where he’s just a kid, but the current reality offers no such mercy. He’s teaching himself how to endure, and though the thought of it scares me, I won’t take this away from him.

It’s the first time since this entire thing started that he’s felt like he’s in control.

During the day, I keep busy by helping Miranda in the kitchen and tending to the farm animals, trying to distract myself from the survival mode that keeps my muscles coiled. But once night falls and the quiet countryside turns still, Dodge and I spend hours together on the porch, talking and getting to know one another as we grow increasingly more comfortable in each other's presence. Tonight is no different. He's sipping on a beer bottle, his eyes occasionally scanning the dark corners for any sign of the faceless killers, and I'm drinking a soft drink from the can, finding a brief, welcome reprieve in his silent protection.