Inside the diner, faint light slipped through tightly drawn curtains.

Wyatt had used his enormous strength to push a heavy industrial steel freezer against the front door.

Sarah clutched Leo beneath the oak bar counter.

The boy remained silent.

Too silent.

It was the unnatural quiet of a child who had experienced more trauma than his mind knew how to process.

Beneath the counter, Leo stared at the metal motorcycle in his hands.

The shouting and threats outside seemed to fade away.

Something else took over his attention.

He ran one dirty finger across the golden letters spelling Rravhem.

Then his father’s voice echoed inside his memory.

“If anything ever happens to me, remember this—the secret is beneath the seat of the angels...”

Leo looked down at the hard black plastic seat of the model motorcycle.

With his small but surprisingly careful hands, he pressed his thumb firmly against the rear of the seat and pushed it forward.

Click.

The sound was almost too soft to hear.

The seat slid free.

Inside the tiny toy fuel tank was a hidden compartment.

And resting perfectly within it was a black rectangular object no larger than a fingernail.

A Micro-SD card.

“Mom...”

Leo tugged gently at Sarah’s shirt.

He held up the toy and pointed at the memory card.

Sarah stopped breathing.

Her eyes widened.

Eight years of fear.

Eight years of running from shadows.

Eight years of never knowing whether the next knock at the door meant death.

All of it had begun because of this tiny object.

With trembling fingers, Sarah removed the card and squeezed it tightly inside her palm until her knuckles turned white.

“Your father really was a genius,” she whispered through tears.

Then she quickly pushed the card deep inside her clothing.

If the worst happened, she would die with it before letting the Syndicate take it.

Chapter 6: Hellfire on Route 93

Outside, Mendoza’s patience finally ran out.

He lifted one hand and gave the mercenaries a signal.

“You want to die with them?”

His mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

“Fine.”

He dropped his hand.

“Kill them all!”

BANG!

Gunfire shattered the air.

The fight for survival began.

More than fifteen automatic weapons erupted at once.

Bullets screamed across the parking lot.

They ripped through asphalt.

Chewed into cactus trunks.

Tore the OASIS sign apart piece by piece.

The diner windows exploded into a glittering storm of razor-sharp glass.

“Covering fire!”

Cole shouted as he dropped low behind the massive engine block of his Harley.

He brought the .45 up through a gap beside the seat and fired twice.

A Syndicate soldier advancing with an AR-15 took both rounds in the chest.

He flew backward and hit the sand hard, leaving a dark streak behind him.

Jimmy—the club’s quiet killer—showed no panic.

He crouched behind his Dyna and calmly pumped a shell into the chamber of a Remington 870 shotgun.

Three Syndicate fighters moved in from the left.

Jimmy waited.

Waited.