I drop us back into drive and peel away, tires screaming against asphalt. A hard right, then another. The city becomes a blur of neon and brick and pissed-off taxi drivers.
Three cars swing into the street behind us—coordinated, hungry, closing fast.
Alejandro twists, window down, gun already up.
“I’ve got these.”
Alejandro leans out the window and fires. The firstbullet punches straight into the front tire of the nearest car. The rubber explodes, the vehicle skidding sideways into its partner. Both fishtail at once, slamming into a street sign with a twisted metallic shriek.
Two taken out in one motion.
He pivots to the third car, fires twice, metal sparking off the hood.
“Damn it,” he growls. “This one’s armored. Get me on the driver’s side.”
I weave around a minivan, slide us into the opposite lane, and ease off the gas just enough to give him a clean angle. Traffic blurs past us, horns blaring, but he’s already shifting—bracing his foot against the door, fingers locking onto the window frame.
Then he goes still.
Completely still.
The chaos outside, the ricochet of bullets, the screaming city—all of it falls away from him. I can feel it. That quiet, cold recalibration of a predator aligning with the kill.
He exhales.
One shot.
It threads perfectly through the metal slats of the assassin’s front grill, slips past the engine block, and finds the tiny exposed gap between the armored plates for the air vents.
The driver jerks, blood splattering the inside of the windshield before the car veers sharply to the right and slams into a row of parked vehicles.
I let out a breath. My shoulder slumping as I let the tension go.
“Nice shot,” I say.
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Just the shadow of one.
It feels like the number of assassins chasing us doubles in an instant. I take another corner hard, tires screaming, and the rear end swings just wide enough to give me a clean count.
Four cars.
Two motorcycles weaving between them like sharks in shallow water.
Alejandro leans across me without warning, rolling down my window. His arm brushes my chest, and—for one ridiculous second—I register that he smells good. Clean. Warm. Something sharp under it, like cedar.
“Sorry—excuse me—coming through?—”
Then he fires twice.
One of the motorcycles jerks violently, the rider skidding across asphalt in a shower of sparks.
The second bike is still bearing down on us when I wrench the wheel right. The sudden force throws him closer—his shoulder pressing into mine as he mutters a quiet, vicious, “Joder?*…”
The curse slips out like a reflex, rough and annoyed.
It pulls a tiny, involuntary smirk from me.
Then I clip the second rider cleanly, sending him and the bike flying down the subway stairs in a blooming fireball of orange flame.
