We wait. My leg bounces against the floor mat. I check my watch twice in thirty seconds. My fingers drum the steering wheel, then adjust the rear-view mirror, then check the side mirror, then drum the wheel again.
I'm breathless with anticipation and nerves, my fingers twitching to do something—anything. Sitting here, idle, might be the worst role for me on a job. Every cell in my body screams to be in there, in the action.
I got outvoted, and part of me wanted to punch every single one of them, but I’m trying this fun thing called diplomacy with the Calloways. Well, kind of.
Still, I can't shake the feeling that if something goes wrong and I'm stuck out here, I'll never forgive myself. Or them.
My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. Next time, I'm not sitting out here like some goddamn chauffeur while everyone else gets to have all the fun.
My fingernails tap-tap-tap against plastic. I check my watch for the eighteenth time. Ten minutes, tops. Then we should see Gage and the truck.
The earpiece finally crackles. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“We’re a go,” Gage's voice comes through, steady as always. “Guest list acquired. Ready for the nerd to do his thing.”
Cruz whoops in my ear, loud enough to make me wince.
“Six and seven, get ready,” Bishop orders.
Beside me, Lola flashes that wild smile of hers. “See you in hell,” she chirps, already reaching for her seatbelt.
I roll my eyes but can't fight my own grin. Only Lola would name an ambush point after the underworld. The ridiculous codename somehow makes this whole high-stakes operation feel like kids playing pretend—right up until the moment it doesn't.
Static crackles, then Bishop’s voice, all sharp edges and impatience. “Maintain distance. Don’t improvise.”
Lola mouths along, lips curled in a smirk. I catch her eye and roll mine dramatically. She grins wider, shaking her head.
The armored truck materializes in my rearview like a shark, chrome grille catching sunlight. My hands freeze on the wheel. Through the windshield, Gage's profile—jaw set, eyes hidden behind aviators.
Two nondescript escort cars trail him like pilot fish behind a shark. My breath catches in my throat until the convoy passes. My lungs finally release, and something between a laugh and a gasp escapes.
“Okay,” I whisper, my fingers leaving sweat prints on the wheel. “Okay.”
I press the pedal, feeling the engine's vibration climb through the floorboards. The speedometer needle twitches upward. I hang back where their dust cloud thins enough to see through, but close enough that the armored truck remains more than a heat-warped mirage on this endless strip of black cutting between nothing and nowhere.
“Visiting Hell,” Gage says.
Up ahead, the truck's right blinker flashes once, twice. The brake lights flare red.
“Showtime,” Lola says, pulling her mask over her face. They’re semi-transparent, warped masks of presidents.
The escort cars pull over behind the truck, engines idling. My fingers fumble with the plastic edges of the Nixon mask, the inside already damp with my breath. Hair catches, tugs. I shove it under my hood. We roll to a stop as the first driver's boot hits gravel. Bishop, Rafe, Cruz, and Beck pull in behind us. The escort cars sit trapped between us like insects in amber.
The door handle burns my palm. My gun weighs exactly two-point-four pounds but feels lighter with adrenaline. It takes effort not to say anything, but we all agreed the less Lola and I talk, the better.
It’s easier to identify a group of menandwomen versus just men.
“On your knees,” Bishop orders, gun pointed at the passenger of one car.
“Hands up,” Cruz snaps, voice low.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Rafe drawls to one of the drivers.
Lola and I advance as one, guns raised and trained on two of the men.
One guard's hand twitches toward his holster—and I’m moving before I give it a second thought. My elbow connects with his nose, cartilage crunching under impact. The guard folds at the middle like a paper doll, slumping over into the dirt. I shove him over with my toe and jerk my chin toward Rafe.
He picks up on what I’m saying immediately and retrieves the guard’s gun with his gloved hand.
