“Last chance,” Beck says from the passenger seat, twisting to look back at us. “Anyone forget to pee?”
Lola snorts. “Okay,Dad.”
“Bladders are weak, sis. Consequences are eternal,” Beckett replies.
The corner of my mouth twitches upward before I can stop it. My pulse hammers against my collar, each beat a countdown of its own.
Bishop's knuckles whiten against the black steering wheel. His gaze darts to the rearview, then side mirror, before his head swivels with precision. The dim glow from the dashboard catches the hard lines of his face as he locks eyes with each of us.
“Timers,” he says, each syllable sharp as breaking glass. His jaw barely moves.
Seven burner phones glow in the dark at once.
“Thirty minutes. Start them in three.” Bishop raises three fingers, folding one down. “Two.” Another finger disappears. “One.”
I hit start. The countdown flips to 29:59 and begins to fall.
My stomach does the same. Everyone stands up, and heat pricks under my skin, sharp and fast. I lean between the front two seats just enough that he can’t pretend he didn’t hear me.
“Don’t fuck me on this, Bishop.”
The words drop between us like a weight.
His eyes narrow, and his mouth curves. “Then don’t give me a reason.”
For a second, the alley is nothing but the sound of the engine and the soft, dangerous thrum of his temper. That muscle in his jaw ticks once.
Before I can reply, Rafe's fingers find my wrist, pressing into my pulse point where the blood hammers beneath my skin. His calluses catch against my sleeve as he tugs. “Clock's ticking,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth hitching up, pupils wide in the dim light. “Let's go, Bellamy.”
The side door slides open on a squeal of metal and cold air rushes in, carrying the sharper scent of garbage and the yeasty warmth of the bakery next door. My boots hit the pavementa half second after Lola’s. The alley feels simultaneously too narrow and too exposed.
Cruz drops down beside me. Gage's boots barely make a sound as he lands on the asphalt, his eyes already flicking upward to trace the jagged silhouettes of fire escapes against the night sky. Cruz's gaze sweeps methodically across the second-story windows, lingering on a half-open blind three buildings down.
“See you on the other side,” Lola says under her breath.
I hold my hand up between us, index finger sticking out. She hooks hers around it with her pinky—our stupid, ancient little ritual we used to do before exams and skating competitions and, later, small-time shop jobs.
Some things don’t change. Some things really, really do.
Rafe shifts his weight behind me, and the air between us seems to shrink despite the foot of space. The hairs on my neck rise. Gage's pupils have gone dark and wide, his teeth working the inside of his cheek as he watches us. Cruz tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing first at me, then at Rafe's proximity, his lips pursing like he's solving an equation I can't see. I find myself straightening my spine, shoulders pulling back as if preparing for something I can't name.
“Stay on channel,” Beck calls softly from the open passenger seat window. “If something feels wrong, bail. Money’s not worth prison.”
“Or a bullet,” Cruz adds casually, like he’s talking about the weather.
I nod once. “I’ll be fine.”
Bishop leans his forearm on the wheel, eyes on the alley mouth. “Clock’s running. Move.”
The building door is already propped, just like we planned, a sliver of darkness between the metal jamb and the frame. Myfingers brush the handle as I slip inside first, the others a silent, shifting shadow at my back.
The stairwell smells like old paint and dust. Our footsteps are a muted thud on the concrete, the only sound aside from the blood rushing in my ears. One flight. Two. My thighs burn, adrenaline stretching every second into something longer, thinner.
On the landing, we split.
“See you on the other side,” Lola says again, voice barely a whisper now.
I meet her eyes in the dim light, hook her finger with mine once more, then let go.
