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“Plenty,” I reply.
It isn’t.
Not even close.
The garage doors are already moving.
Closing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
“They’re trying to trap us,” Lark says.
Good.
She’s thinking.
“They’re trying to slow us,” I correct.
I don’t stop moving.
I don’t hesitate.
I hit the vehicle—
driver’s side—
engine already primed from standby.
We’re in and moving before the doors are halfway down.
“Hold on.”
I floor it.
The engine roars—
tires scream—
we angle hard—
not straight through—
side impact.
The reinforced barrier explodes in sparks and concrete.
Metal screams.
Glass fractures.
We punch through—
barely.
