"We need to go," Miles' hand was on her shoulder, his words warm but stern.
"No," she shook her head. Sylar was coming back. He wouldn't just leave her like this. This wasn't how they were going to say goodbye. He was coming back.
"Your brother is loyal to the Blood Pact to a fault," Miles continued, scratching at his chin with his free hand. "You pushed him to choose between you both and he chose the pack."
"No, he didn't," Brea snapped. She refused to believe it. She could already feel the waves of grief swelling up inside her, threatening to drown her as she stood in the driveway, which had once felt so familiar and reassuring but now was alien to her. Dark shadows bordered her on every side, mocking how she'd once found security in such a place.
"I know this is hard for you," Miles was moving away from her now, swinging himself up onto his motorcycle. "But sweetie, we've got to go. "If we linger here too long we might run into someone we don't want to see."
"He's coming back."
"They'll kill us if they find us," the bluntness of Miles' declaration cut through Brea like a sword. She stared at him wide-eyed.
"I've abandoned my pack at a crucial moment, such an act is unforgivable in their eyes," he continued. "They will kill me to make an example of me. And then they'll kill you to taunt your brother. And our deaths won't be swift. Both packs prefer blades to guns."
Brea noticed the freshly stitched wound on Miles' head which was caked in dried blood. She bit back tears.
"Get on the bike," Miles ordered. She wanted to stay, to wait in the driveway for Sylar's inevitable return, but fear was now seeping into her bones. She didn't want to die beneath some stranger's blade because of her own stubbornness and naivety. Quickly she headed to Miles and climbed up behind him on his bike, pressing herself tightly against him as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
"Hold on tight," he instructed before kick starting the bike. The engine grumbled and then roared like a beast which had suddenly been awakened. They pulled out of the driveway and then careened off into the night, taking the opposite direction to Sylar. While he had been heading north towards Colridge, they would be taking the South route to avoid detection. Brea could feel the wet heat of her tears soaking her cheeks as they rode off into the night.
Chapter 93
Miles had no idea where he was going. He was just driving. He was driving hard and fast and putting as much distance between him and Colridge as possible. The lights on the highway blurred as he picked up speed, the roadside becoming indecipherable. He weaved through traffic, the wind tousling his hair. Behind him, he could feel the pressure of Brea pressed against him. It felt good to have her so close, so near. She was safe and that was all that mattered. But how long before that changed? How long before Hank went back on his word or before Deacon realized that his nephew was missing? Would they forsake the fight at Colridge to search for him? Miles doubted it. The battle was too important. As long as he was long gone by the time the dust settled he'd be okay.
Nerves made his entire body feel unpleasantly tight. He was suddenly adrift without a clear path, just as he had been when his mother tossed him out. He remembered that panicked feeling of abandonment, how it had opened up within his teenage self like a cavernous black hole, threatening to consume every inch of him. But he'd made it back then and he was going to make it now. Because he wasn't alone this time. He had Brea and they loved one another. Surely that was enough of a foundation to create a fresh start?
As he continued to drive, Miles mentally counted how much money he had on himself. Hundred and fifty dollars, two hundred at most. He always travelled with a considerable amount of cash on him, a habit he'd picked up since riding with the Highway Reapers. You never knew when shit was going to go south and he'd need to hold up in a motel for a few nights and lay low. And that was his plan now. Get the hell out of town, out of the state and find a quiet motel somewhere he could hide away in with Brea. He felt comforted at the thought of them sleeping together in the same bed behind a locked door. He'd keep her safe. The blade he'd shoved into his boot reminded him that he'd do anything to protect her if it came to it.
Chapter 94
It was chaotic in the bar when Hank made his way back inside. The entire Highway Reapers gang was present and becoming increasingly rowdy. At the bar, Deacon was doing his best to calm his troops but his efforts were in vain. The monster he'd created had now taken on a life of its own.
"To Colridge!" the old man eventually declared when he realized he didn't have a handle on the bustling crowd. In mass, everyone started to retreat back out of the bar. Hank hoped that Miles had enough of a head start not to encounter any of them. Not that they'd even notice him. Everyone was focused on finding their bike and being the first to arrive in Colridge.
"Let's fuck shit up!"
"Death to all Blood Pact!"
They were all spoiling for a fight, Hank included. He pulled himself up onto his own bike, ignoring the ache in his bones from a lifetime of hard living. He was almost salivating at the prospect of spilling some fresh blood.
"Where's Miles at?" Colin was beside him, throwing a leg over his own bike and staring at Hank through glassy eyes.
"He's already there," Hank said mildly. "He wanted to get a head start on us all, scope the place out."
"Figures," Colin nodded with understanding. "Miles has always been a thinker like that."
"Uh huh."
The sound of numerous engines revving up was deafening. Bikes began to peel off into the night, as though part of some giant medieval beast which had awoken. Their headlamps pooled out to the highway and they all began their trip over to Colridge.
It felt good to feel the wind in his hair. Hank briefly wondered if this was to be his last ride. His body was riddled with scars, new and old, from previous fights. He had his fair share of near-death experiences. Everything he did, he did to excess. Be it drinking, fighting, or sleeping with women. He always had to be the one who did it the most. And over his lifetime he'd excelled in his field.
In his peripheral vision, he could see Colin riding, bent low towards his bike. Further back in the group he could hear pack members cackling and hollering. Everyone was in high spirits, even though they might be driving to their doom. Because that was what it meant to be a Reaper; that's what drew Hank to the pack. They laughed in the face of danger. They didn't shy away from a fight they ran towards it wearing a most wicked smile; one that he assumed the boogeyman, under the bed, wore. Hank's grip on his bike tightened as he drove past the welcome sign for Colrigde; they were almost there. He could taste the anticipation that was carried in the air, along with the bike fumes and liquor which surrounded the pack like smog.
As one, the pack drove down the main street when they came to a screeching halt. Greeting them was a wall of headlights. The motherfucking Blood Pact were already assembled, awaiting their arrival. Killing his engine, Hank parked his bike and carefully unloaded his machete, unsheathing it from its leather case. If the Blood Pact were fixing for a fight, then a fucking fight is what he'd give them.
"So they're already here," Colin noted quietly as he pulled out a hammer from the waistband of his pants.
"Yep," Hank nodded, "ready and waiting." Looking up at the houses bordering the main street, he saw some drapes drawn tightly shut, while others open for display, with light shining out from within. He imagined people in their homes for the night, after a long hard day of the 9-5, stupidly unaware of the fight that was about to break out beneath them.
"Think the cops will show?" Colin wondered. It was always a fear, but the cops never showed up to intervene; they know better than to fuck with this.
Hank and Colin joined their brothers in line and began to advance towards the waiting Blood Pact members, who were moving in a similar formation. Crude weapons glistened beneath the street lights. There were blades and crowbars, wrenches and baseball bats adorned with rusty nails. No one was equipped with a weapon that could potentially bring about a swift death. Everything had been carefully selected for its ability to maim and cause relentless pain and suffering. Hank ensured he had a sturdy grip on his machete. There were thirteen notches on its handle, one for every man he had slain with it. He remembered the last time he'd used it, how it had sliced through the other man's gut, as though it were made of butter.