"Hope things go better for Reaper this time, now that another woman he loves is wrapped up in one of his personal vendettas."
The words hit me like ice water in my veins.Another vendetta.Not an overdose, not an accident, but a fucking vendetta. What does he mean? My blood turns cold as the implications crash over me — what don’t I know about Vanessa's death? What piece of the story am I missing?
I turn to question him, but the truck's headlights sweep closer, and Mayhem's motorcycle roars to life beneath him.
“Showtime," he shouts, and rockets down the embankment toward the road.
The truck barrels down the road, its headlights blinding and blaring over the cracked tarmac with the ostentatious confidence you only see in freightliner rigs and the men who drive them. I ease the Suzuki onto the shoulder, engine still rumbling. Tank and Reaper kick off in a synchronized ballet — Tank lining up ahead of the curve with his signature overkill: a two-by-four banded to the back of his Harley, a ridiculous but effective caltrop deployer. Reaper guns it directly into the lane, his body compact and ready, the black leather of his jacket sucking up the sodium glow.
Mayhem and Diesel sweep in together. Diesel's bike is purring but barely, kept silent for the initial approach; Mayhem is whooping like a lunatic at the oncoming fifty tons of steel. The semi slams on the brakes, horn wailing, but it’s too late —Mayhem zigzags into the path, brandishing the Makarov like a kid wielding a sparkler on the Fourth of July. The truck's brakes scream as it tries to bleed velocity, sending up a shower of sparks as it crests the caltrops Tank dotted along the landing strip of asphalt.
There’s a shrill, metallic shriek as the tires go, the rig lurching and slewing, barely keeping upright. I swerve behind and block off its escape. In the chaos, Reaper guns his bike up the embankment, slings off and sprints on foot straight for the cab.
Mayhem follows, pistol raised, still doing that terrible vodka-baron impression.
"Open the door, tovarisch!" Mayhem bellows.
Reaper grabs the handle and rips it open before the driver can even reach for a weapon. The guy inside is huge, but he freezes at the insanity outside his window.
“Vasili, my friend!” Mayhem howls. “We are delivering you from burdensome labor! Rejoice!”
No one responds. The driver is breathing through his mouth, eyes wide, until Reaper grabs his jacket and yanks him from the cab. The guy lands hard on the dirt, yelping, but Tank and Mayhem are already there to pin his wrists and zip-tie him. Diesel lopes up behind, grabs the guy’s ankles in hands that look like they could pull the limbs off a bear.
Reaper kneels so his mouth is right next to the driver’s ear and snarls, “If you tell anyone what happened, we come back. If you tell anything but Russian noise, we really come back. Blini.” He says it with exaggerated menace.
Mayhem doubles over, cackling. “Blini and piroshki! And maybe… your — how do you say? Your babushka, yes?”
"Please, man," the driver whimpers, in regular Californian. "You can have the truck, just — "
"Don't move," I snap, yanking the keys from his breast pocket. I palm them, motion for Diesel to let go, and the driver folds himself into a pathetic ball on the ground.
I flick my eyes at Mayhem, and he gets the silent demand. Leave the fucking piece.
He hesitates, cradling the Makarov like a rescued kitten, and when I scowl harder, he offers a last, wounded puppy glance and finally drops it on the seat of the battered cab. For a psycho with a penchant for explosives and poor decisions, he sure is sentimental. I stare him down, and he sighs, then walks off, flipping me the bird behind Reaper’s back. Kids these days.
I mount the steps, slide into the greasy seat, and let the chemical smell of adrenaline and diesel fill my lungs. My motorcycle — lightweight, anonymous, disposable — waits like a loyal dog on the shoulder. I leave it. A Suzuki GS500 is not worth my freedom or my life, and anyway, the plan was always to ditch it after this job.
Reaper gives me a grin through the truck’s side mirror. It’s a predator smile, sharp as a fresh blade, but it’s for me, not at me, and it lights something thrilling and kinetic in my gut. As I adjust the seat, I catch the glint of his eyes in the reflection and, for once, I think maybe we might just pull this off.
The key slides into the ignition.
I turn.
The engine coughs, then bellows. I shove the rig into gear, my body remembering the drills from my days at the Academy’s pursuit driving school. Drive steady, look ordinary, act like you belong. I scan the rearview: the driver is still fetal on the shoulder of the road, Tank and Diesel hovering over him, Reaper and Mayhem already firing up their bikes. I give Mayhem a thumbs-up and catch Reaper’s brief nod; they peel off, gunning ahead to run interference for any nosy night drivers or lost joggers who might find a hijacked semi suspicious.
The wheels fight me a little — two are already empty of pressure from Tank’s spikes — but the truck only has to limp a few miles. Past the next overpass, I cut onto a frontage road, winding through lightless industrial lots and banks of closed chain-link. I grin as I hunch over the wheel of our stolen eighteen-wheeler, knowing that the pounding in my chest isn’t dread but the white-hot anticipation of pulling a perfect con. I’ve always loved this part of the job, when everything goes to plan.
Behind me, the little convoy of motorcycles forms a broken escort, leapfrogging ahead to check blind corners and then doubling back to keep unwanted eyes away. We are ghosts, moving through the midnight city’s circulatory system, and for the first time, I feel like I belong in their strange, angry pack.
The steering gets doughy as I approach the last turn. My hands are sweating, but the cab is cold. I slow, check the mirrors again, and ease the truck around the dead end. There it is: our ratty U-Haul, hidden behind a wall of stacked pallets and an abandoned food truck, waiting for its cargo. Cardboard and fry oil fumes fill the air, and the silence is so total I can hear the ticking of the cooling engine.
I park, kill the lights, then sit for a second with my hands on the wheel. They’re shaking, I’m smiling. I breathe once, twice, exhale a fuckload of ecstatic anxiety, then throw open the door.
We’ve still got work to do.
I walk to the back of the trailer, shoulders a little wider, back a little straighter. This is what it’s all about — we unload the cargo; we con the Triads; we use them to get close to Volkov; and then we take out that blight on the city of Sacramento. It’s justice. It’s vengeance. It’s helping the man that I love.
And it’s all going according to plan.
