When I turned back around, Dax was on his knees in the dirt, both of his arms hanging at unnatural, disjointed angles, crying hysterically into the gravel. His men—Viper, Brick, and the other kid—were already sprinting down the highway on foot, abandoning their motorcycles in their desperation to escape.
Silas Thorne stood in the doorway of the garage, wiping a line of nervous sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He looked at the old steel lockbox resting under the counter in my office. He knew what kind of files and weapons were kept in boxes like that.
Thorne reached inside his suit jacket. His guards tensed, but he wasn't reaching for a weapon. His hands were shaking violently as he pulled out a thick manila envelope. He walked slowly over to my workbench and placed it down next to my carburetor.
“Those are the master deeds, Commander,” Thorne said softly, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. “To every acre of land my company purchased in this valley over the last three years. They’re signed over to a blank proxy. They belong to you now. Consider it... an apology for the disrespect.”
I looked at the envelope. I didn't want his land. But I knew that if I didn't take it, he would live in fear that I would come for him. Taking it was the only way to officially close the ledger.
“Do you know what my favorite thing about this desert is, Silas?” I asked quietly, pulling the shredded remnants of my shirt off my shoulders and tossing them into a trash can.
Thorne swallowed hard. “No, sir.”
“The quiet,” I said, looking out at the endless horizon.
Thorne nodded rapidly. “You’ll never hear a sound from my people again, sir. I swear to God. We are leaving the state tonight.”
He backed out of the garage, never taking his eyes off me until he reached the door of his Rolls-Royce. He snapped his fingers, and his guards threw the sobbing, broken Dax into the back of one of the SUVs. The engines roared to life, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as they peeled out of the lot, speeding back toward the highway, terrified of looking back.
The dust settled slowly over the gasoline pumps.
I stood alone in the empty garage. The silence returned, heavy and peaceful. I looked over at the pan of spilled black oil. The dollar bills had completely dissolved into the sludge.
I sighed, feeling the dull, throbbing ache in my right shoulder. Tomorrow, it was going to bruise terribly. I walked over to the hydraulic lift, running my hand gently along the smooth, cool leather seat of the 1948 Indian Chief. The bike was perfectly safe.
I looked up at the ceiling, thinking of Martha. I had bent the promise, but I hadn't broken it. I hadn't taken a life. Sometimes, just reminding the wolves that a bigger monster lives in the woods is enough to make them run.
I picked up the rag from the bench, wiped the oil off my fingers, and went to the front to water the cacti.
THE END