Nixx
The truck moved north through town, past the pawn shop, past the laundromat, past the café where I’d found Spider yesterday. Havoc drove like a man who didn’t think anyone had a reason to follow him, one hand on the wheel, elbow propped near the window. He never glanced back. Never checked his mirrors properly. For a man who called himself Havoc, he had the survival instincts of a decorative mailbox.
I kept several cars between us.
Easy.
Clean.
He was heading out toward the older roads that cut around the industrial side of North Town, where houses thinned out and the desert started pressing in closer around everything.
My pulse settled. This was the part I knew how to do.
Follow the line. Keep distance. Let the target get comfortable. Don’t force the answer before the trail is
