The scent of motor oil and forgotten dreams clung to the battered Ford like a second skin. Akira watched Elena Moontooth work beneath the hood, the woman's impressive height—six feet and two inches of corded muscle and barely leashed violence—making the truck look almost delicate by comparison. Oil stained her copper hands black as night, and when she straightened, her body moved with the distinctive roll of her bear nature, power coiled beneath human skin.
"GPS is f****d out here anyway," Elena announced, slamming the hood with enough force to echo off the mountains. Several wounded flinched at the sound. "Military scrambles everything near the border." She pulled an old brass compass from her cargo pants, the instrument catching morning light like trapped fire. "This was my grandfather'
