nodded, then straddled his bike. Fortunately, his wolves didn’t need to be told twice. By the time he got his bike started, they’d already formed a convoy with the Hunters on bikes taking all points head, between and behind.
Ten hours to get to Summit, with at least two stops for fuel and food, and a thousand or more wolves who wanted her dead before they got there. He opened the throttle on the bike and led the way. It promised to be a great ride.
----
T he miles bled past him in a blur. He guided the convoy along back roads where they could accelerate and avoided the main interstates. They passed through too many populated areas and would be under observation. Cassius knew every inch of his territory. He knew what roads connected to others, how to navigate along what amounted to dirt roads between two-lane routes forgotten by anything other than the most local of traffic. Traveling on the old bypasses took them through some desolate areas, with lower population density and fewer opportunities for ambush.
He stopped for fuel and food at an old diner outside Flatbush. The locals didn’t ask questions, avoided eye contact, served up food, bottles of water and took their money without comment. The Hound never left his vehicle, though he also tested every bit of food before passing it to the wolf in the darkened back.
Caution tempered Cassius’ curiosity about Sovvan’s wolf. She made next to no sound and never raised her head above the rear seats. If not for the scent of her, he wouldn’t have known she was in the car.
Jose stumbled wearily through the process of eating and drinking. Trask’s JoJo kept an eye on him while Delroy, like Faust, didn’t leave his charges. The child still slept, and Bianca’s troubled mood cast a pall over the rest. The difficulties of transport, engaging with an Omega, and dealing with betrayal, loss, and the potential for an outright rebellion weren’t the most auspicious beginnings to his endeavor.
Then again, he’d always understood they’d have to pay a price in blood. Allowing them only a fifteen-minute break—long enough to fuel, use the facilities and get food—Cassius ordered them back on the road. He could go—and had gone—days without sleep. Road grit stung his eyes and his cheeks ached from windburn. The scruff on his face thickened with every passing hour. By the time they reached Summit, he’d likely have a beard.
It could all wait, however. Once they were at Summit, and he had Sovvan behind its impregnable walls, he could afford the time to take care of some basic needs. The night surrendered to day as they crossed the border from New Mexico into Arizona. The blue-black sky retreated as the sun painted ribbons of color across the horizon. Desert sunrises were swift, bleeding the light across the day. The bike protested pinning the needle over a hundred as they began the climb into the northwest-trending escarpment between the higher-level Colorado Plateau and the lower level Basin and Range Province.
Far from Phoenix and the prying eyes of civilization—and far from the desert reaches of the Reaping—they followed a route from public to private land. Private investors owned nearly fifteen percent of the state of Arizona, Sutter Butte held thirteen percent via subsidiaries, shell corporations, and foundations. The paper trail would leave investigators scratching their heads, but they always paid taxes promptly and donated generously to law enforcement and social services. It kept the wheels greased, and the humans from interfering with them.
Now and again, a gang would try to roust his territory, and Cassius took special pleasure in putting them down. The ascent included switchbacks, which forced the convoy to slow, but he cruised the curves with a rising sense of exhilaration. The sun warmed his back, and he fought the urge to lean forward.
At the top of the rise, they would reach Summit—a carefully cultivated desert jewel, tucked away atop a mesa once
Ten hours to get to Summit, with at least two stops for fuel and food, and a thousand or more wolves who wanted her dead before they got there. He opened the throttle on the bike and led the way. It promised to be a great ride.
----
T he miles bled past him in a blur. He guided the convoy along back roads where they could accelerate and avoided the main interstates. They passed through too many populated areas and would be under observation. Cassius knew every inch of his territory. He knew what roads connected to others, how to navigate along what amounted to dirt roads between two-lane routes forgotten by anything other than the most local of traffic. Traveling on the old bypasses took them through some desolate areas, with lower population density and fewer opportunities for ambush.
He stopped for fuel and food at an old diner outside Flatbush. The locals didn’t ask questions, avoided eye contact, served up food, bottles of water and took their money without comment. The Hound never left his vehicle, though he also tested every bit of food before passing it to the wolf in the darkened back.
Caution tempered Cassius’ curiosity about Sovvan’s wolf. She made next to no sound and never raised her head above the rear seats. If not for the scent of her, he wouldn’t have known she was in the car.
Jose stumbled wearily through the process of eating and drinking. Trask’s JoJo kept an eye on him while Delroy, like Faust, didn’t leave his charges. The child still slept, and Bianca’s troubled mood cast a pall over the rest. The difficulties of transport, engaging with an Omega, and dealing with betrayal, loss, and the potential for an outright rebellion weren’t the most auspicious beginnings to his endeavor.
Then again, he’d always understood they’d have to pay a price in blood. Allowing them only a fifteen-minute break—long enough to fuel, use the facilities and get food—Cassius ordered them back on the road. He could go—and had gone—days without sleep. Road grit stung his eyes and his cheeks ached from windburn. The scruff on his face thickened with every passing hour. By the time they reached Summit, he’d likely have a beard.
It could all wait, however. Once they were at Summit, and he had Sovvan behind its impregnable walls, he could afford the time to take care of some basic needs. The night surrendered to day as they crossed the border from New Mexico into Arizona. The blue-black sky retreated as the sun painted ribbons of color across the horizon. Desert sunrises were swift, bleeding the light across the day. The bike protested pinning the needle over a hundred as they began the climb into the northwest-trending escarpment between the higher-level Colorado Plateau and the lower level Basin and Range Province.
Far from Phoenix and the prying eyes of civilization—and far from the desert reaches of the Reaping—they followed a route from public to private land. Private investors owned nearly fifteen percent of the state of Arizona, Sutter Butte held thirteen percent via subsidiaries, shell corporations, and foundations. The paper trail would leave investigators scratching their heads, but they always paid taxes promptly and donated generously to law enforcement and social services. It kept the wheels greased, and the humans from interfering with them.
Now and again, a gang would try to roust his territory, and Cassius took special pleasure in putting them down. The ascent included switchbacks, which forced the convoy to slow, but he cruised the curves with a rising sense of exhilaration. The sun warmed his back, and he fought the urge to lean forward.
At the top of the rise, they would reach Summit—a carefully cultivated desert jewel, tucked away atop a mesa once
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