Gun drawn, I sweep the hallway first. Left. Right. Empty—at least for the next three seconds. Alejandro stands behind me with Skippy slung over one shoulder like a grotesque gym bag. I don’t need to look at him to know exactly where he is. I feel him at my back, radiating tension.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
We move fast, quiet, practiced. The stairwell is a death trap with a body—too many blind corners, too many angles for ambush. The elevator is the lesser evil.
I hit the call button. The hallway hums with old fluorescent lights, buzzing like they’re nervous for us. Alejandro shifts behind me, adjusting Skippy’s dead weight.
Then I notice it.
He’s also holding a fucking taco.
In his other hand. Wrapped in a napkin. And he’s eating it. Actively. Taking a big, satisfied bite.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I smack it right out of his hand. The taco splats to the floor as the elevator dings open.
He yelps, offended. “What? Mama Grim gave it to me as we left. Am I supposed to say no?”
“Yes,” I snap, stepping inside. I clear the corners, then jerk my chin. “Move.”
He follows, wiping his hand on the back of Skippy’s arm as the doors slide shut around us. The elevator rattles downward, ancient cables groaning. Every floor feels like an eternity. We reach the ground, slip out into the alley, and sprint to the car.
We dump Skippy into the backseat—no seatbelt, no dignity, no time.
“I’m driving,” I say. “You shoot.”
Alejandro doesn’t argue. He tosses me the keys, rounds the hood, and jumps into the passenger seat, gun already coming free of its holster.
I fire up the engine, slam the gearshift into reverse, and tear backward out of the narrow parking space?—
Only to hit the brakes hard.
Two cars block the mouth of the alley. Engines idling. Blacked-out windows roll down exposing faces we recognize all too well—assassins we’ve crossed paths with before. Their eyes gleam with the kind of hungry purpose that says they didn’t come to talk.
“Well,” I murmur, pulse steadying into something cold and sharp, “looks like this just became a high-speed chase.”
I rev the engine once—sharp, taunting—then drop my foot to the floor.
The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this moment. I aim not for the front bumper, but the exposed flank of thefirst assassin car. We slam into it with a violent crunch, metal screaming as my fender bites deep into their door.
I don’t stop.
I keep pushing, grinding them sideways across the street. The assassin inside fumbles for his gun, eyes wide, mouth forming curses I don’t bother reading. The tires catch at the curb, the whole frame tilts, and then the car flips onto its side with a hollow, bone-rattling thud.
I keep pushing—shoving them the last few feet until we hit the brick storefront across the street. Glass bursts. Metal folds.
“One down,” I mutter.
I don’t waste a breath. I throw the car into reverse, swing the wheel hard, spin us in a tight arc, and floor it straight into the second car before they can react.
We plow into their front end and shove them backward—out of the alley, into the open intersection behind us.
A horn blares.
A massive garbage truck appears from the right, going way too fast for city limits. It slams into the assassin car with enough force to lift it off the ground before crushing it beneath its tires like a tin can.
I wince. “Two down.”
