by Greg Barth
“Got it, boss.” Choke set the backpack down by my feet. He turned, trotted over to the plane, and ran up the steps.
“That’s not what I fucking meant. Get back—”
Choke pushed him out of sight, turned, and pulled up the steps, sealing the cabin.
We stood there together, the three of us, and watched as the plane lined up with the runway. The jets revved. We shielded our eyes from the wash of air from the engines. The plane started to roll, picked up speed, grew smaller and smaller as it sped away from us. And then it was in the air, climbing. I watched until it was a blinking light fading into the western sky.
“What now?” Sloane said.
I turned to her. She wasn’t watching the plane. She was staring off at a bright star to the north. “I’m thinking we got some pissed off bikers and whatever’s left of Mozingo’s crew we should be fleeing from about now.”
Sloane looked down. She shook her head. “I can’t leave.”
“You sure as hell can’t stay.”
“I won’t leave my man.”
“If he wakes up,” Enola said. “And you know that isn’t likely. Even if he does, he’ll go to prison.”
“If I don’t get him first,” I said.
“Shut up,” Enola said.
“I won’t leave him. I can’t. I don’t think they’ll hurt me. They don’t know I’m involved in this.”
“If we can’t help by taking you with us, we can help by giving you a third of the spoils. But we can’t stay here and help you against them if they come for you.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“We’ll leave you cash,” Enola said. She reached into the backpack and took out more cash than I had ever seen in one place at one time.
“Thank you,” Sloane said.
We all hugged and she got into her convertible and drove off. Enola and I stood watching the taillights fade. She lit a cigarette and put it between my lips.
“They’re all gone,” I said. “The whole crew…from Faranacci all the way down. Even Ragus.” I shook my head.
“Everybody that ever hurt you is dead,” Enola said.
“Along with a lot of people that helped me.”
“I’m still here.”
“But you’ve lost everything.”
“Maybe not everything. Do I have you…Selena?”
I scoffed. “I’m not much.”
“So what now?” she said.
I took a long draw on the cigarette. I was dizzy from the blood loss. I closed one eye against the smoke. I looked at the star Sloane stared at earlier. A bright point just above the dark horizon. “All stories are tragedies in the end, you know?”
“So you’re saying this is the end?” A tear worked its way free and slipped down her cheek. I looked up at this tall, beautiful woman that was crazy about me.
“Fuck that shit. I wanna go someplace warm,” I said. “You’re driving, babe.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Greg Barth is the author of Selena, Diesel Therapy, and Suicide Lounge. He lives and writes in Bowling Green, Kentucky.