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Conor drove me to where the Gray Ghost was parked on Thirteenth Avenue. My brother was right. On the outside, it looked like a brand-new vehicle. The dented, scraped-up, dull-gray side panels were now gleaming silver, like a newly minted coin. Maybe a little too new. Not nearly as invisible as before. But at least Fiddler’s spray-painted epithets were gone.
When we stopped at Conor’s, we loaded up on a little extra firepower—his assault rifle, a shotgun, boxes of ammo, my trusty battering ram, plus a few flash bangs for good measure. We had no idea what we were walking into, so I wanted to be prepared.
The drive up Black Canyon Highway to Prescott took a few hours. I started out driving, then at Cortes Junction, we switched places. From there, we took Highway 69 through Prescott Vall
