Alejandro and I share a look—one beat, sharp and wordless. Appreciation without admission. Gratitude neither of us is petty enough to say outloud.
The back windshield explodes behind us, glass blasting forward like shrapnel. Alejandro ducks, twists, and returns fire through the shattered frame. His bullet finds the driver between the eyes. Their car swerves, plows into the one beside it, and both spin out in a roaring metal tangle.
“We need to lose them,” he says, already reloading. “Or we’ll be doing this all fucking night.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “No shit.”
I cut left—hard enough that the tires give a high-pitched squeal—and shoot straight toward a parking garage entrance.
The flimsy gate arm tries to rise, pathetically slow. I hit it at full speed. It snaps clean off and whips across the hood like a thrown stick.
One of the assassin cars behind us overshoots the turn, skidding past the entrance and slamming into a parked sedan. But three more surge after us, headlights flooding the garage shadows.
Alejandro tenses. “What is your plan exactly?”
I barrel deeper into the structure, concrete pillars strobing past us as I throw the wheel hard left.
“Just shoot.”
Gunfire echoes behind us, ricocheting off cement like angry hornets. Our tires scream around another tight turn, rubber smearing across the floor. Alejandro doesn’t waste bullets—he waits. Patient. Taut. A predator riding out the chaos.
Then he fires.
The round slices through the narrow gap between two pillars and punches straight into the driver of the lastpursuing car. Their headlights swerve, slam into a column, and go dark.
Two left.
We spiral higher. Up one level, then the next. The structure hums with gunshots, engines, and our shared pulse drumming in the air between us. When we break onto the top deck, open night yawns above us—nothing but sky, cold wind, and a drop that would turn us into confetti.
Alejandro’s irritation finally slips through. “There is literally nothing up here except gravity. Tell me you’re not?—”
“Hang on.”
“Saint—”
But I’m already flooring it, shooting us toward the far edge of the roof.
At the last second, I jerk the wheel. Hard.
The car whips around in a brutal pivot, fishtailing as momentum drags us sideways before straightening. We swing past the two cars chasing us in the opposite direction—close enough to feel their exhaust against my skin.
I extend my arm out the window, elbow locked, gun steady.
For a breath, time slows.
We pass the first car, our windows lining up perfectly. The driver faces me—smug smirk, cowboy jawline, eyes that think they’ve already won.
Motherfucking Colt Harrington.
The Texan.
Sharpshooter.
Asshole extraordinaire.
I pull the trigger and the bullet shatters hiswindow in an exploding starburst of glass. He jerks, flinching—reaction ruining the precision he prides himself on.
He tries to mimic my turn, but he doesn’t have the timing. He slams the front of his car into the concrete barrier of the deck. The impact forces him to back up, curse, reposition.
