Saint pops a big pink bubble of gum, lets it snap loud enough to sting my pride, and says, “Pretty sure his last thought was relief he didn’t have to hear your voice again.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
She does that to me—drops a casual insult like a grenade and strolls away from the explosion.
The passenger side smacks into a dip, and she’s yanked halfway out of her seat before bouncing back in. She doesn’t swear. Doesn’t gasp. Just adjusts a curl behind her ear.
“Driving like this… must be exhausting for you,” she says. “All that effort. Just to stay average.”
I choke on air. “Average? ¿Qué coño estás diciendo??*”
I slide us onto the maintenance road, tires spraying gravel. As soon as I try to form a rebuttal bullet punches into the rear windshield. Both of us duck.
She’s out her window a heartbeat later, balanced like a gymnast in a gunfight. One clean shot and she hits the front tire of the nearest car.
It fishtails, spins sideways, and rolls—slamming into two others in a spectacular pileup.
A fireball shoots up like the forest is competing in an action-movie audition.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
“My specialty,” she boasts, settling back into her seat like she isn’ta menace.
The highway appears ahead, a concrete salvation. I put the pedal down, engine snarling as we rocket toward it. I check the mirror every other second, watching for followers, while Saint props her foot on the dash and twirls a piece of her curly hair like we’re out for Sunday brunch.
I hate how good she looks doing that.
A break in the median appears. I angle toward it. Just as we pass, I slam the brakes. Saint lurches forward, hands slapping the dash to brace herself.
The dead guy in the back rolls off the seat with a thud.
“Hold on tight,” I warn.
I shift into reverse, throw an arm across the back of her seat to brace myself, and gun it backward through the median and onto the opposite side of the highway.
“You threw my friend on the floor,” she says flatly.
I grin. “Somehow, I think he’d be more pissed about you throwing him out a window than me tossing him onto the floorboard of our getaway car.”
Her eyes narrow and my smirk widens.
Now she knows that I tailed her last night.
Dios?*, I love irritating her. It lights her up in ways bullets never could.
“You’re driving the wrong direction,” she says.
Like I don’t fucking know I’m reversing at top speed, dodging confused commuters who have no idea an international kill squad is right behind us.
Once I clear the densest pack of cars, I slam the brakes again and yank the wheel. Wespin. Fast. Clean. A perfect arc.
At the exact moment the nose of the car swings forward, I hit the gas.
We lurch, straighten, and tear down the highway—now pointed in the right direction and leaving a chorus of honking cars and bewildered drivers behind us.
I keep the pace up until the last shadow drops off the mirror. No headlights. No engines. No crawl of movement along the tree line.
Finally, I ease off the gas.
