He glares at me, then jabs at the button to start the engine and throws the car into drive. “Don’t think for a minute he won’t sacrifice you to save himself because he will.”
Keeping my focus on the gates ahead, I wonder if he means Reaper or Rune.
***
Clyde keeps his eyes on the rearview more than the road, making me think I’m actually the better driver.
“The road is in front of us,” I point out, checking my seat belt for the fifth time. “Whiplash isn’t on my to-do-list so please don’t rear-end the car in front of us.”
Clyde glances at the road, then back to the rearview. “We’re being followed.”
My pulse jumps, and I twist in my seat, scanning the sea of cars behind us. “Which one?”
“The Ferrari,” he says.
“We live in Miami, Clyde,” I say, exasperated. “That narrows it down to half the cars in this city.”
“ThePurosangue.”
“Please be more vague. I love it,” I say.
Clyde casts me a dry look. “All black. Three cars back. Center lane.”
I scan the lanes again and my stomach drops when I spot it. “Rune?”
“Not sure,” he says, cutting into the center lane. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Especially after…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But I don’t think so,” Clyde says after a minute. “Like you said, he’s too paranoid to hire an outsider. Especially on short notice.”
“Zane?” I ask, because yeah, I have that man to deal with too and I wouldn't put it past him to have us followed.
“Fuck.” Clyde inches his car between the two in the next lane. Horns blast around us. “That’s entirely possible.”
“Do tails usually drive such conspicuous cars?” I ask, looking over my shoulder out the back window. “You’d think they’d want to be a bit more discreet.”
“You’d think,” Clyde says, leaning forward to show his middle finger to the car next to us as the driver leans on his horn. “So I’m going to find out.”
“Road rage is a thing,” I remind him as he forces our vehicle into his lane.
Clyde flips off another driver who blares his horn at us. My stomach knots as he steers us into the next lane, then suddenly swerves, barely catching the exit. My stomach dips, and I twist and watch as the Ferrari zooms past, missing the ramp.
“Well, you lost them,” I mutter, settling back in my seat as he drives into the heart of downtown, where the interstate and crossroads thread through the city like a spiderweb. Clyde steers us west, away from Rune’s house, and I glance his way. “Where are we going?”
“Toward the next exit,” Clyde says, cutting onto a street that weaves along the river snaking through the city. “I want to talk to this motherfucker.”
“Lovely,” I say, shifting in my seat. “I’ve always wanted to interrogate someone.”
My shoulder hits the door as Clyde takes another sharp turn, and drives us down a road lined with several skyscrapers in various states of construction, jutting up between small buildings. Many are just hollow concrete shells with exposed rebar reminding me of skeletons.
Clyde takes another turn, too fast, and I slam into the door again. My heart picks up pace, but I take a deep breath toease the tension in my muscles. His tense jaw and rigid posture make me nervous. Not that I’ve never seen Clyde furious, but I’ve never witnessed him in action. Knowing Clyde kills people, and seeing it are two different things. Ever since I watched Reaper shoot Manuel, I would like to avoid being present during a murder.
And right now Clyde looks murderous.
“And what means of interrogation are we going to use?” I ask, pressing the lock button on the door. “Waterboarding? Or maybe–”
As Clyde takes the next turn, the roar of the engine hits my ears before I see it. Tires squeal as the same black car from the interstate tears around the corner, fishtailing before it rights itself in the lane in front of us. Clyde curses and slams on the brakes. I lurch forward, the seat belt digging into my collarbone as he puts the SUV into reverse. Cars behind us blare their horns. Clyde twists in his seat, using my headrest to look over his shoulder, and my stomach drops as we fly backward.
