What the hell—?
And then a man in a white shirt, goatee, and glistening colourless hair stepped pride of place in the line-up. He stood with his legs spread in the middle of his henchmen and pointed a finger right into my soul.
Motherfucker.
I was right. Cut hadn’t waited.
He probably gave up waiting the same time we left with Daniel.
While we gave the lions breakfast, Cut had amassed a counter-attack.
“Fuck, fuck,fuck!”
“No!” Nila cried as I stood harder on the gas. “Don’t stop. Please, Kite. Do. Not. Stop. I don’t care. I don’t care if they shoot. Just...don’t stop!”
Feral ferocity exploded in my veins. “I won’t.”
They were in my way. I had a car. They didn’t.
“Put your belt on. Now!” I downshifted, granting more power and more screams to the angry engine. Our trajectory turned from hurtling to flying.
I would kill every last guard barricading my way. And I would do it gladly.
Nila’s eyes bugged, but she did as she was told. Trembling hands grabbed her seat belt, securing herself tightly. I did the same, juggling between belting myself in and steering the old Jeep.
I gritted my teeth against the influx of emotion pouring from the men before me. Their bodies might form a wall, but their emotions did, too. Fear, obligation, unwillingness to get hurt regardless of what threats Cut had delivered.
My heart skipped a beat as the youngest of the men—just a boy—stepped from the line and raised his gun.
He aimed.
I drove faster.
He fired.
The explosion hurt my ears as the kid recoiled, his arm soaring upward from the kickback. Nila screamed as the bullet pinged off the bonnet.
“Get down!” Grabbing her neck, I forced her to bend over her knees.
“What about you?!” She looked sideways, frantic terror in her eyes.
“Don’t worry about me.”
Worry about them.
I swerved, placing my side of the car more prominent than hers. If anyone was going to get shot, it was me. I’d already survived one bullet. I could do it again.
“Jethro!” Nila disobeyed my orders and looked up. “Watch out!”
We stared down the barrels of guns. Machine guns. Shot-guns. All types of guns. Armed and cocked and ready to—
They fired.
We didn’t stand a chance.
The wheels blew, the metal carcass became pockmarks and mangled debris.
The car kept flying, but not on the ground. The front end crunched as the axis buckled, sending us tumbling through the sky.
