Clover turns to me, and the tears tracking down her cheeks hit me like a sucker punch to the chest.
“I can’t stop thinking about them,” she whispers. “About what they might be going through right now while we’re out here playing tourist.”
I want to comfort her.
I want to tell her everything is going to be fine.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because the truth is, I don’t know if everything is going to be fine.
I don’t know if Sadie is safe, if the club is safe, if we’re driving toward Vegas or driving away from a massacre. All I know is that Maverick’s orders were clear. “If we can’t reach them, continue to Vegas, and under all circumstances…
Keep.
Clover.
Safe.”
But fuck if it doesn’t feel like we’re abandoning everyone who matters.
“Phoenix,” she mumbles, her voice smaller now. “What if the worst has already happened? What if they’re all gone?”
The GPS chirps, announcing our turn for the Mojave National Preserve, and I take it automatically, muscle memory guiding me while my brain wrestles with her question. “Then we deal with it when we know for sure,” I say finally. “But until then, we stick to the plan.”
She nods, but I see the war playing out across her face. The same war that’s been raging in my soul since yesterday morning.
Dutyversusa desperate need to know.
Ordersversusinstinct.
Protecting herversusprotecting everyone else.
The Mojave National Preserve spreads out before us as if from another planet. Joshua trees dot the landscape with their alien arms reaching toward the sky, and the late afternoon sun turns everything golden and otherworldly.
Bono from the band U2 stated that the tree was named by Mormon settlers after the prophet, Joshua, as it reminded them of Joshua raising his arms in prayer. I’m not a man of faith, never claimed to be, but maybe that’s what we need right now. To raise our arms in prayer that the club is safe. Seeing these trees in their glory, as the symbols of faith that they are, under normal circumstances, I might actually appreciate the stark beauty of it all.
But these aren’t normal circumstances.
And faith in the past has gone unanswered.
So maybe I will rely on silent prayers to a God I don’t believe in.
Fuck, maybe I’ll pray to Bono instead.
Parking at one of the designated overlooks, I rack my jaw from side to side with my racing thoughts as Clover mechanically gathers her camera equipment. She’s going through the motions, but her heart isn’t in it. I see it in the way she handles her gear, careful but distant, like she’s performing a duty rather than pursuing a passion.
“Take your time,” I tell her as we both hop out of the truck, and she sets up her first shot.
She glances at me, and for a second, I see a flicker of the girl who got excited about weird roadside attractions and perfect lighting.
“Thanks,” she whispers softly.
I watch her work, noting how she frames the Joshua trees against the vast sky, how she captures the display of light and shadow on the desert floor. Even distracted by grief and fear, she’s got an eye for this stuff. The people who hired her were right to trust her with this campaign.
My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps into my throat.
But it’s just a damn low battery warning.
