The terrain is a catastrophic nightmare of jagged metal, broken glass, and deep, freezing puddles of oily water. My boots slip and slide against the treacherous ground, but Thayer’s immense physical strength keeps me completely upright. We plunge into the pitch-black shadows of the skeletal industrial ruins, leaving the clearing behind.
Seconds later, a massive, earth-shatteringwhooshof ignition detonates behind us.
A wall of blinding, searing orange heat hits my back, instantly vaporizing the freezing rain clinging to my sweater. The armored SUVs explode into towering pillars of fire, the violent inferno lighting up the dark, stormy sky, effectively destroying any physical evidence, any DNA, and creating an impenetrable barricade of flames between us and the approaching federal agents.
Thayer doesn't slow down. He drags me up a steep, muddy incline toward a massive, collapsed concrete silo. His breathing is turning ragged, a heavy, wet rasp that betrays the excruciatingphysical toll the sprint is taking on his torn, recently stitched shoulder. I can feel the unnatural heat radiating from his skin, the fever from the cabin threatening to claw its way back to the surface.
We round the corner of the crumbling concrete structure.
Hidden entirely beneath a heavy, camouflage tarp is a vehicle. It isn't an armored, matte-black Syndicate SUV. It is an old, battered, dark gray 1970s muscle car. A ghost car. Completely unregistered, entirely analog, and invisible to modern tracking technology.
Thayer reaches out and violently rips the heavy tarp off the hood. He pulls a single, brass key from the inner pocket of his charcoal topcoat.
He turns to me.
His pale, glacial gray eyes are completely blown, the pupils entirely swallowing the irises. The bruised, bloody gash on his cheekbone stands out starkly against his ashen skin. He is swaying slightly, the adrenaline crash finally beginning to dismantle his iron-clad control.
He holds the brass key out to me.
"I can't shift the gears," Thayer rasps, his left arm hanging completely useless, pressed tightly against his ruined chest. "You drive."
I stare at the small piece of metal resting in his massive, blood-stained palm.
My heart completely stops. The air in my lungs turns to solid concrete.
I have never driven a getaway car. I have never been behind the wheel of a vehicle while fleeing a federal raid. For eighteen years, I was a passenger in my own life, driven by armed guards, completely forbidden from taking the wheel of my own destiny.
But the wail of the sirens is deafening now. The flashing red and blue lights are cutting through the heavy smoke of the burning SUVs, painting the rainy sky in violent, strobing colors. They are coming for him. They are coming to lock the monster in a concrete box for the rest of his life, and they will lock me away right beside him as an accomplice to murder.
I look at Thayer’s face. He isn't asking. He is entirely handing me the absolute control of our survival.
The last fragile, terrified remnant of the girl I used to be completely burns away in the ashes of the railyard.
I snatch the key from his hand.
I run to the driver’s side door, ripping it open. The interior smells of stale dust and old leather. I slide into the deep bucket seat, my wet boots finding the heavy metal pedals. Thayer practically collapses into the passenger seat, hauling the heavy door shut behind him.
I jam the key into the ignition and twist it hard.
The massive V8 engine doesn't just start; it violently roars to life, a guttural, mechanical scream that shakes the entire chassis of the old car.
"Headlights off," Thayer commands, his head falling back against the headrest, his chest heaving as he bites back a groan of pure agony. "Take the dirt access road along the river. It drops beneath the highway overpass. Do not stop until we cross the state line."
I reach down, my trembling fingers finding the cold, metal sphere of the manual gear shift. I slam my foot onto the heavy clutch. The resistance is brutal, requiring genuine physical force to compress. I shove the shifter into first gear.
The tires spin wildly in the wet mud for a fraction of a second, fighting for traction, before the heavy rubber bites into the earth.
The car launches forward, pinning my spine against the leather seat.
We tear down the dark, unlit access road, entirely consumed by the pitch-black shadows of the riverbank. I drive by the faint, ambient glow of the burning railyard in the rearview mirror and the intermittent flashes of lightning illuminating the treacherous, flooded path ahead. The steering wheel is heavy, requiring a white-knuckled, desperate grip to keep the heavy muscle car from sliding into the rushing waters of the Chicago River.
The sirens fade into a distant, frantic hum, completely muffled by the violent roar of the V8 engine.
I am driving the getaway car. I am fleeing a murder scene. I am officially a federal fugitive.
The realization should induce a crippling, debilitating panic attack. It should make my throat close up and my vision blur with dark, fuzzy static. But the only thing pumping through my veins is pure, blinding, high-octane adrenaline.
I shift into second gear, the engine whining as I push the speed faster, navigating the blind curves of the dirt road with a reckless, terrifying precision I didn't know I possessed.
