The bus ticket felt like freedom pressed between her trembling fingers.
Anna clutched it so tight the paper wrinkled in her fist, her thumb smudging the black ink that spelled out her destination: Phoenix. It wasn't far (maybe four hours on a good day), but it was far enough. Far enough to vanish into the sprawling Arizona desert, to breathe air that didn't taste of motor oil and fear, to live without Victor Kane's shadow pressing against her ribs like a broken bone that wouldn't heal.
She'd bought the ticket with money stolen from her own tips at the diner, twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents that represented weeks of scrimping and saving and pretending everything was normal. The clerk at the Greyhound station had barely looked at her, just slid the ticket across the grimy counter like it was any other Tuesday transaction instead of her lifeline to freedom.
Now she sat in the back of the bus, hood pulled low over auburn hair that caught too much attention, backpack wedged between her knees like a shield against the world. The Greyhound was ancient, probably older than she was, with duct-taped seats and windows that rattled like chattering teeth. The air inside was thick with diesel fumes and human sweat, the kind of institutional funk that spoke of a thousand desperate journeys undertaken by people with nowhere else to go.
Desert nothingness stretched beyond the windows for miles in every direction: sage brush and Joshua trees and heat mirages that made the horizon shimmer like water. Nevada was a hard place, unforgiving to the weak and indifferent to human suffering. But today it looked beautiful to Anna, empty and clean and free of leather cuts and predatory smiles.
Her heart thudded with every mile marker they passed, each one taking her further from the Iron Wolves compound and closer to something that might be called a life. For the first time in months, she dared to hope. Maybe Victor wouldn't notice her absence until it was too late. Maybe his network wasn't as extensive as he claimed. Maybe she could disappear into Phoenix's anonymous sprawl and build something new from scratch.
The highway stretched ahead like a black river carrying her toward salvation.
The driver's voice crackled over the intercom, distorted by cheap speakers and road noise. "Approaching Henderson station. Five-minute stop for passengers and fuel."
The bus hissed to a halt with the mechanical wheeze of air brakes that had seen better decades. Anna's stomach clenched as people shuffled down the narrow aisle, their chatter a background hum to her racing pulse. She stayed put, gripping the ticket like a talisman, telling herself this was just a routine stop. Nothing more.
Through the grimy window, she could see the station: a concrete building that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated the concept of joy. A few travelers milled around the parking area, stretching legs cramped by hours of highway travel. Everything looked normal, boring, safe.
The bus door groaned open with a pneumatic sigh.
That's when she saw them.
Two men walking across the parking lot with the casual confidence of predators who'd already spotted their prey. Leather cuts stretched across broad shoulders, the Iron Wolves insignia clearly visible even from a distance. Anna's blood turned to ice water as recognition hit her like a physical blow.
Victor's men. His personal enforcers.
They boarded the bus with unhurried steps, taking their time like tourists exploring a museum exhibit. But Anna recognized them instantly: the one with the crooked nose broken so many times it resembled abstract art, and his partner who carried a permanent limp from a motorcycle accident that had left his right leg shorter than his left. She'd seen them around the compound, had served them beer at club functions, had learned to read the violence in their eyes when they thought no one was watching.
They scanned the rows of passengers with predator patience, cataloging faces and checking them against some internal database. Anna tried to sink lower in her seat, tried to become invisible through sheer force of will, but it was like trying to hide from death itself.
"Anna De'Leon," the crooked-nosed one called out, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. The sound cut through the bus's ambient noise like a blade through silk. "Time to come home, sweetheart."
Conversations died mid-sentence. Passengers turned to stare with the morbid fascination of people witnessing a car accident. Anna felt their eyes on her like physical weight, pressing her deeper into the cracked vinyl seat.
Her fingers dug into the armrest hard enough to leave marks. "No," she whispered, but the word was too soft to carry any real defiance.
The limping man stepped closer, his movement fluid despite the damaged leg. He reached for her arm with the casual confidence of someone who'd done this before, who understood that resistance was futile. Anna bolted upright, shoving past the elderly woman in the seat beside her, but his grip caught her wrist like a steel trap snapping shut.
The bus ticket fluttered from her nerveless fingers, landing in the aisle like a white surrender flag.
"Please," she hissed, struggling against the iron grip that was already cutting off circulation to her hand. Her backpack slid to the floor with a soft thump, spilling notebooks and spare clothes across the dirty linoleum. "Don't do this. I wasn't hurting anyone."
He yanked her forward with the efficiency of someone handling livestock, ignoring the stares of passengers who shrank back into their seats like frightened rabbits. The crooked-nosed enforcer scooped up the fallen ticket, glancing at it with a smirk that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Phoenix, huh?" He chuckled, the sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "Cute idea. Victor figured you'd try something like this eventually."
"Let go of me!" Anna shouted, her voice cracking with panic and rage. She twisted in the man's grip, kicked at his shins, raked her nails across his forearm hard enough to draw blood. "Somebody help me!"
But nobody moved. Nobody helped. The passengers watched in silence, shrinking into themselves as though her desperation was contagious. A businessman in a wrinkled suit studied his phone with sudden intensity. A young mother pulled her child closer and whispered something about minding their own business. An elderly veteran stared out the window like the desert landscape was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
The unspoken rule of public transportation had kicked in: see nothing, hear nothing, remember nothing. Everyone understood that getting involved in other people's problems was a good way to acquire problems of your own.
The limping man dragged her down the aisle, her sneakers scraping against the floor with the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. She twisted and fought and clawed, but he only laughed, a sound devoid of humor or humanity.
"Victor said you'd try something stupid," he said, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone whose predictions had been proven correct. "Said you'd get ideas about independence and freedom and all that bullshit. Man knows you better than you know yourself."
The bus driver, a weather-beaten man in his sixties who'd probably seen every variety of human misery during his years behind the wheel, opened his mouth as if to protest. Then his eyes caught sight of the pistol grip protruding from Crooked Nose's cut, and his mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
Anna's scream died in her throat as she realized the full scope of her helplessness.
They hauled her off the bus into the scorching desert air that hit her face like opening an oven door. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as the Greyhound's doors sealed shut with mechanical finality. The bus pulled away in a cloud of diesel exhaust, carrying her last hope of escape into the shimmering horizon.
A black Cadillac Escalade idled near the station's fuel pumps, its tinted windows reflecting the harsh Nevada sun like obsidian mirrors. The vehicle was expensive, immaculate, the kind of ride that spoke of serious money and serious power. Chrome gleamed like weapons in the desert light.
The rear door swung open as they approached, revealing the interior's leather-appointed luxury. Victor Kane sat in the back seat like a king holding court, his ice-blue eyes calm and patient as a snake waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He wore a charcoal gray suit instead of his usual leather cut, the expensive fabric making him look more like a corporate executive than a motorcycle club president.
His gaze locked onto Anna's with the weight of absolute authority, unreadable but heavy with judgment and disappointment. There was no anger in his expression, no rage or violent emotion. Just the cold calculation of someone who'd expected this outcome from the beginning.
They shoved her into the seat beside him with efficient brutality. The door slammed shut, sealing her inside the climate-controlled cocoon that smelled of leather and expensive cologne. The sound was final as a coffin lid closing.
Victor didn't speak at first. He just stared, letting the silence build like pressure behind a dam until Anna thought she might scream from the tension. The Escalade pulled away from the station with whisper-quiet efficiency, its powerful engine humming as the desert landscape began sliding past the windows.
Anna pressed herself against the far door, as far from Victor as the confines of the vehicle would allow. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her whole body trembling with adrenaline and terror. She could feel his presence like radiation, burning through her skin even though he wasn't touching her.
"I just wanted to leave," she whispered, the words barely audible above the road noise and air conditioning. "I wasn't going to tell anyone anything. I just wanted to be somewhere else."
Finally, Victor turned his head with deliberate slowness, his movement calculated for maximum psychological impact. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, conversational, but it cut through her defenses like a surgeon's blade.
"Family doesn't run, Anna."
His hand moved faster than thought, faster than reflex or self-preservation could react. The slap cracked across her left cheek with the sound of breaking wood, snapping her head sideways and filling her mouth with the copper taste of blood. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, radiating from the point of impact like ripples in a pond.
Stars exploded across her vision. Tears stung her eyes, but whether from physical pain or crushing despair, she couldn't tell.
Anna froze completely, her body going rigid as every muscle locked down in response to the violence. Her pulse screamed in her ears like air raid sirens, but she didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, didn't dare do anything that might provoke further punishment.
Victor leaned close, close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear, close enough that his cologne made her dizzy. His voice was cold as winter moonlight on desert stone.
"You belong to me, Anna. Every breath you take, every step you make, every thought in that pretty little head: all of it belongs to me. Don't ever forget that again."
The words settled into her bones like poison, carrying the weight of absolute truth. The slap had been a correction, a reminder of the natural order of things. The real punishment would come later, in private, where screams couldn't carry beyond soundproof walls.
Anna stared straight ahead through the windshield, watching the Nevada desert blur past like a fever dream. The highway stretched endlessly in both directions, but she understood now that distance was meaningless. Geography was irrelevant.
There was no escape from Victor Kane. There never had been.