Diego lands beside me a second later, hitting the ground with a grunt of pain that cuts through the adrenaline. He stumbles, clutching his side for a fraction of a second, before grabbing my wrist.
“Run.”
We run.
The alley opens onto a side street. Behind us, heavy boots hit the pavement. Shouts echo off the brick walls. A car sits at the curb—old sedan, engine running.
“Get in.”
I dive into the passenger seat. Diego’s already behind the wheel.
He slams the car into gear and floors it.
Tires scream. The car fishtails, then grips.
“Buckle up,” he says.
I fumble with the belt. My hands are useless.
In the rearview mirror, headlights flare. High beams. Three sets.
We’re three blocks away when the first SUV pulls into traffic behind us.
“They made us.” Diego’s gaze flicks to the rearview mirror. No panic. Just data.
He yanks the wheel hard to the right.
The car groans as we take a corner on two wheels.
“They’re faster than I expected.”
The sedan’s engine whines. We’re going fifty in a thirty-five zone. Sixty.
“Can’t you lose them?”
“Working on it.” He yanks the wheel right. We fishtail onto Massachusetts Avenue.
A second SUV cuts us off from a side street.
Diego doesn’t slow. He accelerates.
“What are you?—”
We punch through the intersection, missing the SUV by inches. Horns blare.
“Hold on.”
“They’re gaining!”
“Cassie.” He looks at me. For a split second, his eyes leave the road. Dark. Intense. Terrifyingly calm. “Breathe.”
He spins the wheel left.
We dive into an alley barely wide enough for the car. Trash cans explode against the bumper. Mirrors scrape brick.
We burst out the other side. Diego kills the lights.
“Get down.”
