Rafe plucks a Glock from a guard's holster, checks the safety, and flings it in a high arc. It lands with a dull thud thirty feet away, kicking up a puff of dust. Bishop does the same with another weapon, this one spinning like a deadly frisbee before disappearing into scrub brush.
I keep my gun trained on the tallest guard while Lola's aim never wavers from the one with murder in his gaze.
Beck's boots crunch gravel as he climbs into the truck cab. Behind me, Cruz's bleach bombs make wet, sloshing explosions as he sets them off in the cars we drove here.
The plastic zip tie snicks as it tightens around wrists—that same plastic-ratchet sound from when Mom would have a random sober day and start bundling garden clippings.
The guard's skin pinches white against black plastic, his throat working up-down-up. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Shut up,” Bishop says.
He doesn’t listen. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. It’s not our boss you have to worry about. It’shis.” He nods toward Murder-Eyes on his right.
Rafe squats down, lifting Murder-Eyes’ chin with the end of his gun. “I guess we should kill you then, hm?”
Murder-Eyes clenches his jaw tight, rage blooming underneath his skin and turning his cheeks pink. “You’ll be begging me for death before my boss is through with you.”
Rafe chuckles. “Maybe. But not before you do.”
“Enough,” Bishop grunts.
The silence tastes like copper.
Fabric scratches against skin as I yank the hood over the guard's head. His grunt of protest cuts off when Rafe shoves him face-first into the trunk of his own sedan. The contents of his pockets disappear into Bishop's burn bag.
Rafe's fingertips brush the back of my hand as he passes, the touch so light I almost miss it beneath the leather of his gloves. Three feet away, Gage's eyes lock with mine across the dust cloud hanging between vehicles. His chin dips a quarter inch—gone in the heartbeat before he swings into the truck's cab. The trunk slams with a hollow thud under Bishop's palm. His shoulders rise and fall, fingers splaying against the sun-hotmetal as he exhales through his nose, jaw muscles flexing once before he straightens.
It's beautiful, our execution—like watching a constellation form in real time. A thrill of adrenaline sparks through my chest, electric and sharp as lightning.
Cruz's index finger catches mine, a quick hook-and-pull that barely registers as touch. His chin jerks toward the truck's rear, eyes already fixed on our escape route. My boots shift in the dirt, muscles tensing before my brain fully processes the signal.
Time to go.
My eyes dart left, then right, scanning the dust cloud for a glimpse of my siblings. Nothing.
My pulse hammers against my throat, each beat a countdown. Then—movement behind tinted glass. Lola's Nixon mask tilts toward me from the back seat of the first escort car, her gloved fingers tapping twice against the window. In the second car, the passenger door hangs open, Beck's boot visible as he hunches over, fingers flying across his laptop.
I blow out a long breath and roll my shoulders back. I don’t have time for nerves anyway.
Lola's door slams shut as I slide across hot leather beside her, Rafe already gunning the engine before my seatbelt clicks. Across the dust cloud, Cruz's silhouette disappears into the other vehicle, Beck's laptop glow illuminating their faces as Bishop peels away first, tires spitting dirt in our direction.
Fifty miles later, my boots crunch across broken asphalt at the rest stop. The eighteen-wheeler's cargo door groans on rusty hinges, revealing a cavernous darkness that swallows the guards one by one as we push them inside.
“Just yell. They’ll find you eventually.” Bishop slams the door closed, but not locking it.
My boots hit asphalt as I sprint toward the armored truck, Cruz's footsteps pounding behind me. He grabs the handle, yanks it open with a metallic groan, and we both dive inside.
The door slams with the weight of a bank vault, swallowing us in darkness broken only by small domes of light from the lights on the side walls.
My nostrils flare at the tang of metal and heat and money. The door thuds shut behind us with a pressurized whoosh that makes my ears pop, wrapping us in a cocoon where outside sounds become distant echoes. I steady myself against the wall as the floor beneath my boots trembles in rhythm with the engine's growl. With each sharp turn, plastic clicks against plastic—red and blue casino chips sliding in their metal bins, tapping out a staccato rhythm that makes Cruz's lips twitch upward as if they're telling inside jokes.
Cruz's breathing comes fast and shallow beside me, matching the rhythm of my own. His mask dangles from his fingers, sweat glistening on his temples in the dim light. His eyes meet mine, wide and electric, before his face cracks open in a grin that starts small, then spreads until he's shaking with it.
“Holy shit, Bells.Holy fucking shit. We actually fucking did it.”
A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it, my fingers digging into Cruz's forearm hard enough to leave half-moons. My pulse hammers in my throat, behind my eyes, at my temples—a drumbeat of still alive, still alive. The truck lurches around a curve, and I stumble against him, both of us vibrating like live wires.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice catching on the single syllable.
