The hum of the engine was no longer a comfort; it was a low, insistent thrum against Theo's teeth, a drumbeat of impending doom that echoed the frantic pulse in his temples. Ashtabula, Ohio, felt a thousand miles away, a lifetime removed from the empty, sun-baked roads of Utah. Every shadow was a potential ambush, every glint of light in his rearview mirror a sniper scope. The report from his contact had been concise, chilling: They know.
He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the scent of coffee and Remy's bubblegum mingling with the faint, metallic tang of his own anxiety. He'd been driving for longer stretches, pushing past his comfortable limits, trying to outrun not just a tangible threat, but the icy tendrils of paranoia that had wrapped around his gut. His agitation was a raw nerve, and it manifested in sharper glares, quicker retorts.
"Do you have to chew like a cow with a cud, Remy?" he snapped, the words clipped, his Italian curses more pronounced under his breath. Cazzo. He ran a hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping. He hadn't slept properly in days.
Remy paused, mid-chew, her blue eyes wide, innocent. "It's gum, Theo. Not an entire pasture. And it's a nervous habit. You're making me nervous." Her voice, usually light, had a rare thread of genuine concern woven through it. "Are you… okay? Or is there something else going on? You've been a bit… growly." Her question, uncharacteristically pointed, momentarily cut through his agitated haze. He just grunted, pressing harder on the gas.
He caught sight of it again, a dark, unmarked sedan with tinted windows, appearing and disappearing too conveniently. It had been there at the last rest stop, idling, its occupants too still.
Now, it was a distant speck, then closer, then gone again after a bend in the road, only to reappear. It was too clean for these desolate stretches of highway, too precise in its movements. He knew it in his bones: they were being hunted. The knot in his stomach tightened, pulling with a cold dread.
"Oh! Stop the car! Stop the car right now!" Remy practically shrieked, pressing her face against the passenger window.
Theo slammed on the brakes, the tires squealing faintly on the hot asphalt. He braced himself, ready for an immediate threat. "What? What is it? What do you see?"
Remy pointed, her finger vibrating with excitement, at a faded, hand-painted sign peeking out from behind a cluster of scrub oaks. "Gifford House! Capitol Reef National Park! They have historic pies! I bookmarked it on my 'things to eat before I die' list! It's too unique to pass up, Theo, it's a landmark!"
Theo stared at the sign, then at Remy, then back at the empty road. He let out a disbelieving laugh, short and harsh. "Are you insane? We are not stopping for pie! We're being hunted, Remy, remember? This isn't a scenic tour! This is a security risk! We're exposed! There's no escape route! It's pure, frivolous idiocy!" His voice was tight, a tremor of barely suppressed panic running through it. Figlia di puttana.
Remy's chin jutted out. "Frivolous? Theo, this is pie. And it's historic pie! Do you know how many times in life you get to experience historic pie? Probably zero, if we keep going at this speed while you scowl like a gargoyle who lost his favorite pigeon." She crossed her arms, digging in. "I might not get another chance to try this specific pie!" The words, thrown out in the heat of the moment, hung in the air, weighted with an unintentional irony that Theo, lost in his frantic calculations, completely missed.
He gripped the wheel tighter. "We don't have time for your 'things to eat before you die' list, Remy! We need to put distance between us and whoever is following us, not pull into some isolated tourist trap!"
"Oh, so we're fleeing the apocalypse, or just bad traffic, Theo?" she deadpanned, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "Look, if we're going to die, I'd rather die having tasted boysenberry pie from an old Mormon farmhouse than dry-mouthed in a speeding SUV. Now, turn here. Please." She punctuated the "please" with a dramatic, pleading look, her lower lip trembling just enough to be completely manipulative.
He let out a frustrated growl that vibrated in his chest. "Mannaggia," he muttered, running a hand over his face. He should say no. He should just keep driving. But the sheer, unyielding stubbornness in her eyes was a force of nature. He sighed, a long, defeated sound, and begrudgingly flicked on the turn signal. "You have a complete and utter lack of survival instincts, do you know that?" he grumbled, pulling off the main road onto a dusty track.
Remy beamed. "That's what you're for, then, isn't it? To make up for my glaring deficiencies."
The Gifford House was everything a historic pie place should be: quaint, surrounded by ancient apple trees, and smelling heavenly of cinnamon, sugar, and ripe fruit. A few elderly tourists milled about, clutching paper bags, their contented murmurs a stark contrast to the coiled tension in Theo's shoulders. For a split second, the absurd charm of it all, combined with the actual aroma, almost made Theo drop his guard. Almost.
Remy practically skipped inside, eyes wide with the serious business of pie selection. Theo lingered near the entrance, scanning. The parking lot was small, easily cut off. The surrounding trees offered perfect cover. His gut clenched.
And then he saw them.
Not one or two, but several. Emerging from the surrounding trees, from behind a dusty minivan, from the small, unpaved parking area. The dark sedan he'd seen on the road was parked conspicuously near the single, narrow exit. They weren't random thugs. These were professionals, positioned with chilling precision to cut off every escape route. This wasn't a chance encounter. It was a calculated, well-executed ambush.
"Remy!" he barked, his voice low and urgent, but it was too late.
"Stay back!" Theo roared, his hand going for the pistol tucked into his waistband. He drew it in one fluid motion, the cold steel a familiar comfort against his palm. He fired two quick shots, precise and brutal, dropping the first two men who tried to flank him from the outside. They crumpled, silent.
But more appeared, moving with a practiced, predatory grace. Theo engaged, a whirlwind of fists and elbows, the handgun spitting fire. He took down another, then another, showcasing a brutal efficiency that spoke of years in the shadows. He parried a knife thrust, delivering a bone-jarring kick to the assailant's chest. He was good, incredibly good.
But he was outnumbered, strategically compromised. A hulking figure, built like a brick wall, crashed into him from the side, sending him stumbling. Theo retaliated with a swift uppercut, but another man swung a heavy, blunt object – a wooden plank, perhaps – into his still-healing ribs. A sharp, white-hot pain lanced through him, and Theo grunted, his breath knocked out of him. He was pinned against a display of local preserves, struggling, losing ground, his movements becoming more desperate as the numbers overwhelmed him. He heard Remy's gasp, then a sharp, almost animalistic sound he didn't recognize.
Remy's quirky demeanor vanished. It didn't just drop; it evaporated, replaced by something cold, sharp, and utterly terrifying. Her bright blue eyes, usually brimming with mischief, went flat, focused, and devoid of any humor. The playful tourist, debating the merits of boysenberry versus apple, was gone. In her place was a lean, efficient fighter, every muscle in her slight frame coiling with lethal intent. There was no hesitation, no panic.
She grabbed a heavy, decorative cast-iron trivet shaped like an apple from a nearby shelf, the kind meant for hot pies, and stepped in. Not in a clumsy, panicked way, but with a fluid, devastating precision that made Theo's own brutal combat skills seem almost ponderous.
The first thug, distracted by Theo's struggle, didn't see her coming. She moved like a whisper, the trivet arcing in a short, brutal swing. It connected with the side of his head with a sickening thud, dropping him instantly.
"Oh, that's a poor stance, sir," she deadpanned, her voice oddly calm, almost bored, as she executed a lightning-fast block that snapped another attacker's arm back with a sickening crack. He screamed, clutching his elbow, before she followed up with a perfectly executed sweep kick that sent him sprawling across the polished wooden floor, knocking over a rack of tourist postcards.
She pivoted, a blur of motion, her movements shockingly fast. A third man, wielding a short club, swung wildly. Remy ducked under it, her body rotating as she came up into a perfect arm bar, twisting with chilling efficiency. The man roared in pain as his joint locked, then she leveraged him into a chokehold, his face quickly purpling as he lost consciousness and slid to the floor.
"You left yourself open for the 'Sparkly Unicorn Takedown!'" she murmured, not to the unconscious man, but to the empty air, as she moved onto the next. Her eyes scanned the room, assessing, calculating.
Theo, pinned by the burly assailant, grunting through the pain in his ribs, watched in utter, jaw-dropping disbelief. This quirky woman, who hummed off-key and talked to her car, who debated the existential meaning of pie, was systematically dismantling professional thugs. He'd seen plenty of fighters in his life, but never anything like this. It was like watching a hummingbird transform into a hawk, precise and deadly. His entire perception of her shattered and reassembled in a kaleidoscope of shock, awe, and a burgeoning something else he couldn't name but recognized with a jolt. He forgot his own pain, utterly mesmerized.
With Remy's unexpected, brutal intervention, the attackers were quickly subdued. Some lay groaning amongst spilled pie and broken display cases, others simply fled, stumbling out the door, utterly bewildered and demoralized by this pint-sized, pie-wielding terror. The immediate danger passed, leaving a trail of bruised, confused thugs, an echoing silence, and a very messy, possibly pie-splattered, scene. The remaining elderly tourists stared, their mouths agape, crouching down in horrified silence.
Remy, breathing slightly heavily, her chest rising and falling with a controlled rhythm, dusted off her hands. She adjusted a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead, then glanced at the metal trivet, still clutched in her hand, before setting it back on its display with a soft clink.
She turned to Theo, her expression completely calm, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "Well, that was rude," she said, her voice completely normal, almost conversational. "Did they even try the boysenberry pie? It's divine, you know. I was just about to order a slice."
Theo pushed himself up, ignoring the fresh throbbing in his ribs. He looked at Remy, truly looked at her, with an entirely new gaze. It was a potent mix of shock, profound awe, and deep, unqualified respect. And then, like a lightning bolt in the chaos of the pie shop, it hit him. A sudden, overwhelming, undeniable rush of attraction that blossomed in his chest, hot and potent.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. This woman, who had just disarmed and dispatched five armed men with the casual grace of a dancer and the brutal efficiency of a trained assassin, was now talking about dessert.
His internal thought hit him with crystal clarity, a certainty that resonated through every fiber of his being, cutting through the adrenaline and the pain.
I'm going to marry this woman someday. The one who just took down five armed men with a pie pan and then asked about dessert.
The irony of his earlier dismissal of her "survival instincts" hung deliciously in the air. He hadn't just been wrong; he'd been spectacularly, magnificently wrong. And he'd never been more captivated.