I part my lips to clap back, but headlights down the road cut me off, and I focus on them instead of Wallace’s stupid-ass comment.
“Too many cars,” Rod states calmly. “Put Wallace on speaker.” Juice does it, since I don’t have access to the cell he’s calling us on, and Hot Rod says, “Didn’t we put a three-car cap on this?”
“Yes,” Wallace’s voice fills the car. “How many?”
“At least five,” Juice answers. “And they arenotdriving in a straight line. They’re taking up both lanes.”
“Take off,” Wallace orders. “Something’s not?—”
“Three cars behind us,” Hot Rod sneers, and it’s obvious this is a set-up of epic proportions. He lifts a walkie-talkie to his lips and says to the other two cars who came with us filled with The Nameless, “Follow me. Don’t get out of the car. Engage if you have to. This isn’t him.”
“Get out of there, Rod,” Wallace commands. “Ram them if you have to.”
“I installed those steel bumpers and grill guards last night,” Juice says. “They’re reinforced as well, so let’s test them out.”
“I wasn’t really in the mood for bumper cars tonight,” Rod returns tersely. “But here we fucking are.”
Juice bounces once in the passenger seat as if he’s as excited as hell. “Let’s do it, brother. Baby Wildes, buckle up.”
I already am because I don’t trust these motherfuckers. However, being on a high-speed chase wasn’t on my bucket list of shit to do tonight.
But since when do I get anything I really want lately?
Gunshots ring out the moment Hot Rod hits the gas and gets the SUV going. He goes right for the cars coming for us, and I know we’re about to play a game of chicken.
These lunatics think being in a car is going to save them from uncertain death and whiplash, apparently.
One car swerves out of the way, and I catch the make and model as it almost goes off into the ditch.
Black beamer.
“It’s De Leon,” I issue out, and I reach for my Glock holstered in my jeans. “Unless your boy drives the same car.”
“He likes Jags,” Juice replies. “And that red Eclipse is his boy, too.”
Tarzan.
Fucking weird guy.
I’ve seen him randomly jack off in the corner when nothing else was going on, just because he wanted to. He’s built like a tree, and I bet he swings off them too.
Hence the name.
My body is jolted forward as the SUV collides with another car. Hot Rod keeps an expert handle on the vehicle as he shoves it aside, still barreling down the road.
But the others don’t seem to be doing so hot.
“Man down,” a male voice claims over the walkie-talkie. “They have rifles, dude.”
Juice plucks up the device and asks, “Who?”
“Shorty, man. He’s bleeding out.”
“Head to the hospital,” Rod orders, whipping the SUV around and causing the tires to protest loudly against the cement road as the car feels as though it’s going to tip over. “Don’t stop.”
“Wallace,” Juice sing-songs. “Where you at?”
“Handling it,” he deadpans. “Put Baby Wildes on. Don’t get out of the fucking car.”
