"No, no, no," I muttered, my hands trembling as I grabbed a rag and tried to wipe the sticky residue away, a useless, desperate gesture. "I have to get to Bend. I have to. My family..."
"You won't make it in this," the stranger said, his hand gently but firmly gripping my shoulder to stop my frantic movements. His touch was incredibly solid, grounded. "My truck is parked around the side of the building. A black Tacoma. I can drive you."
I froze, my survival instincts screaming at me. I was a solitary man who had learned the hard way that trust was a luxury I couldn't afford. Why was this massive, dangerous-looking soldier at this specific, empty gas station? Why had he intervened? And why was he now offering to drive an old man with a bag full of cash forty miles into the city? Was he working with the bikers? Was this a elaborate setup to get me into a vehicle where he could take the money without a witness?
"I don't even know your name, son," I said, stepping back and clutching the brown paper bag even tighter, my knuckles turning white.
"Logan," he said simply. He didn't try to close the distance between us, recognizing my fear. He kept his hands visible, relaxed but ready. "And I think you know exactly who I am, Arthur."
Hearing my name fly from his lips for the second time today sent a shiver down my spine. I stared at him, my mind racing, trying to connect the dots. "How do you know my name? Did those bastards tell you?"
"We need to get moving," Logan said, his eyes scanning the empty highway as if expecting the bikers to return at any moment. "I'll explain everything on the way. But if we stay here, we're sitting ducks. Those men weren't just random road trash. They were sent here for you."
With no other choice, and the ticking clock of Thorne's deadline echoing in my mind, I reluctantly followed him to his black Toyota Tacoma. The truck was clean, organized with military precision, and smelled of gun oil and pine. I climbed into the passenger seat, keeping the brown paper bag pressed firmly against my knees, my eyes never leaving Logan as he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. The truck purred with a powerful, well-maintained roar, and we pulled out onto the empty asphalt of Highway 97, leaving my beloved old Ford smoking in the gravel.
For the first ten miles, the silence inside the cab was deafening, broken only by the hum of the tires on the road. I sat tense, my muscles locked, watching Logan's reflection in the side window. He drove with a calm, focused intensity, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors.
Suddenly, a muffled, electronic chirping sound cut through the quiet. It was coming from inside my brown paper bag.
My heart skipped a beat. I didn't own a cell phone—I had always preferred the landline at the ranch, and my daughter-in-law knew I was on the road. I reached into the bag, my fingers brushing past the cold metal of the tackle box, and pulled out a cheap, plastic burner phone that I had never seen before. It was vibrating violently in my hand, the screen displaying an unknown number.
"Answer it," Logan said quietly, his eyes remaining on the road. "Put it on speaker."
With shaking fingers, I pressed the green button and held the phone between us.