By the time we reach his car, I'm nauseous and getting ready to puke on his back. He tosses me off his shoulder and lets me land in the dirt at his feet. While I pick myself up, he drags my backpack off me and tosses it in the open car window.
"Get in," he snaps, dragging the door open. It protests and creaks under the force.
This man is used to driving alone with no passengers.
I remember him well from my time spent in the New York Sanctuary. My underground crew and I did our best to avoid this terror of the streets and his men. Men who were loyal to the warlord would drive around and harass citizens, arresting anyone who resisted their backward laws.
I didn't meet Malachi until I was charged with unlawful activity and sent to prison. Even then, he rarely spoke. He would come check on
