Chapter 6 - The Iron HorseThe 1998 Ford F-250 diesel roared to life with a thick cloud of black smoke that hung heavy in the frozen morning air. Its transmission whined in protest as Mara shifted it into four-wheel drive, bouncing out of the rutted driveway and onto the county highway.
In the passenger seat, Roman Falconee sat upright, his broad shoulders braced against the door, his face pale from the constant, grinding agony of his injured spine. In the truck bed behind them, secured beneath a blue tarp, Julian Cross was tied up like a sack of grain, alongside Bear, who sat sentinel with his massive head resting on his paws, keeping a watchful eye on their captive.
"The state police checkpoint is ten miles up on Route 9," Mara said, her eyes fixed on the icy road ahead as she gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. "If Dominic has the local precinct in his pocket, they’ll be looking for this truck."
"They won't be looking for a rusted-out farm truck with a broken tail light," Roman said, pulling a heavy tactical knife from the glove compartment and checking the edge. "They’ll be watching the turnpikes and the private airstrips. Dominic thinks in terms of corporate assets. He doesn't understand people who drive trucks that smell like wet hay."
Mara glanced sideways at him. "You really think you can just walk into your own estate—paralyzed from the waist down—and take back an empire?"
"I'm not going to walk in," Roman said grimly. "I’m going to drive through the front gate."
They drove in silence for twenty minutes, the winter landscape blurring past in shades of white, gray, and dark pine. The tension inside the cab was thick enough to cut with the knife Roman was holding.
"Why did you do it?" Mara asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
"Do what?"
"Give the order on your brother. If you loved him, how could you let them convince you?"
Roman’s jaw tightened. The scar along his cheek seemed to turn white against his skin.
"Because I was a businessman first," Roman said, his voice barely above a whisper. "In my world, you’re taught that sentiment is a liability. When the evidence was laid out in front of me—bank records, signed receipts, witness testimonies—I looked at it with cold, rational logic. I chose the organization over my own blood."
He looked down at his motionless legs.
"The universe has a very precise sense of irony, Mara. It broke the part of my body that walked away from him, and it left my mind intact so I could spend every waking second regretting it."
Mara didn't answer. She reached across the console, her rough, calloused fingers brushing briefly against the back of his hand—a gesture so sudden and unexpected that Roman froze.
"My husband, Caleb," Mara said quietly, her eyes still on the road. "He died in a fire three years ago. The insurance company said it was faulty wiring. The police said it was an accident. But I knew the local mill owner wanted our land to expand his logging road. I spent two years trying to prove it was arson, screaming at people who wouldn't listen, fighting a system rigged against me."
May you like
She turned her head, meeting his amber eyes with fierce, unyielding intensity.
"So I understand what it means to want a ghost to rest," Mara said. "Let’s go get your ledger."
