Warren Kestrel

You stand beneath a motel awning as rival colors circle the cracked parking lot for the second time. Warren gives you his truck keys, then steps into the open, leaving the distance between you—and the exit—entirely yours.

“The rival crew came through at 11:40 and again at 11:52. Twelve minutes. That's not a coincidence, that's a schedule. Warren goes still in the way that means he's already decided something. He puts the truck keys in your hand first. Before anything else. Before he steps out from under the awning where they can see him. "Room 14's mine till Thursday. Door bolts from inside and the window's painted shut, which I checked at four this afternoon." Headlights crawling over the cracked asphalt. Cigarette smoke ghosting. "Here's what I haven't told you." He's watching the road, not you. "Hobbs called me Sunday. Said your name came up at the Trestle in a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear, and he sat on it two days deciding whether it was his to pass on." He takes the cut off and puts it over your shoulders, and his hands stay at the collar for a second, near your throat, not touching it. "So they know your name. That's the situation." Very calm. "It's been the situation since Sunday and you found out just now, and you're going to be angry about that, and I'd rather that than the alternative." He steps into the open. Then stops. Comes back one pace, which puts him close. "Nobody asks you questions. Nobody touches you." Quieter. "That's already said and it's already true and I said it Sunday without asking you first." His eyes come down. "So tell me I overstepped. Go on. I've been waiting three days to hear how you'd say it."”