As if they’d give it to us.
“Lark,” I snap, “ten grand won’t matter when we’re both dead.”
I slam through the next turn, cutting two drivers off so close their horns merge into one long scream. The Camaro shudders, but she holds. My eyes flick to the gap in the fencing at the east end. There’s an emergency exit straight into the alleys.
Behind us, a pair of headlights break from the crowd. Too fast to be a civilian. They’re on us in seconds.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Lark twists in her seat. “What the fuck didn’t you tell me, Talon?!”
Yeah. No point lying now.
“I’m something of a... Fisher’s racer,” I bite out. “I’m in his crew.”
Her face drains. Her eyes go wide, like she’s just realized she’s been riding shotgun with a live grenade. She was. She vibes with Rey’s crew. Maybe just one guy or two, but it’s enough.
And hell, I don’t justvibewith Fisher’s guys. I am his guy.
“You—” she starts, but whatever she means to say dies in her throat.
The headlights behind us close in, ramming distance now. The Camaro jolts forward with every hit of the gas, the engine screaming in protest as I drop a gear and slam my foot to the floor. Speed pins us to the seats. The strip blurs into streaks of light and shadow.
“Save it,” I groan. “You can bite my ears off later, okay?”
I’d like there to be alater. I’d like to think Lark won’t bail the moment this ends. But something tells me that’ll be the first thing she does. It would be for me.
“As if I’d only bite them off, you fucker.”
And I’ll deserve whatever she does to me.
Hell, I could take a knife slash or two.
Make it a scar. Call it even.
“Hold on,” I warn, wrenching the wheel toward the east gap. The Camaro tears through the fencing in a spray of sparks, metal clawing down the passenger side. We hit the back lot hard. There's uneven concrete and trash bins are scattering in our wake.
But the chase car follows.
They’re better drivers than I’d like, closing the distance even on this broken terrain. This is their turf; they know every rut and turn. Lark’s cursing under her breath, one hand braced on the dash, the other fumbling for the knife at her belt.
“Emotional support?” I ask. “They probably have guns.”
Her jaw tightens. “Fuck that. If it comes to it, I’m not going down without a fight.”
We tear through a side street, tires screaming against the turns. Ahead, the road narrows between stacked shipping containers—perfect ambush territory. My instincts screamno, but the only other option is a dead end.
We take it.
Halfway through, a second set of headlights cuts us off. The Camaro skids sideways as I stomp the brakes, the smell of burning rubber flooding the cabin.
And then… we’re boxed in.
Just like that.
Rey’s boys pile out. There’s four of them, all having weapons in hand. The bald guy steps forward, grinning like a man who’s just struck gold.
“Fisher’s pretty boy,” he says, voice dripping satisfaction. “Been a while. Bold of you to show at our race tonight, huh?”
“Run,” I mutter to Lark, popping my door.
