I force my attention back to the road when we once again jump out onto asphalt, two sedans roaring behind us. The gas station where our calvary awaits erupts from the darkness. No wonder. Koby’s clocking one-forty miles an hour.
We fly past three identical Range Rovers waiting by the road, ready for a game of switcheroo. Nate, Rookie, and Jackson join the fray, turning the chase into a disordered ballet.
“Fuck yeah!” Rookie’s voice booms from the speakers. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”
“Eight years,” Nate confirms, his tone level as he goes on to spew instructions.
Neither Apollo’s driver nor Blaze’s two sedans seem fazed. All the cars stay on us. Not for long, though, because the next minute, in a sequence of rehearsed moves, we switch places with Rookie, then Nate, then Rookie, then Jackson, over and over, mimicking the classic shell game.
Koby veers left, right, brakes, then accelerates before sweeping us in and out of the vertical formation. All four Range Rovers are identical, down to the plates and blacked-out windows, so the cars chasing us have no clue which car is which.
At least that was my thinking, but less than a minute later, Koby’s towing the fuckers again.
Broadway glances over his shoulder, confusion etched between his brows. “How the fuck do they know?”
“Dents from the bullets,” Ryder explains. “We didn’t foresee them trying to make a sieve out of the car when we planned this.”
“I’ve got this,” Nate says, his resolve bleeding through the speakers.
A set of instructions follows. Koby obeys, flooring the gas to make room for Nate to slip into formation. He stays inches from our back bumper for a mile or two, increasing the distance between him and the car behind, then slams the brakes, coming to an abrupt and complete halt in the middle of the road.
The driver of the sedan following doesn’t have time to turn the wheel, let alone brake. He crashes into Nate’s Range Rover at full speed. Metal bends, windows shatter, thecrashlouder than a fucking explosion.
Almost simultaneously, as if anticipating Nate’s move, Jackson clips the rear end of Apollo’s getaway car, sending it into a spin. It slams into the pileup, amplifying the chaos.
Two down, one to go.
“Shit! You good, Nate?” Broadway asks, staring out the back window. “Nate?!”
“I’m good,” comes his strained reply, followed by a humorless chuckle. “You’re in for one hell of a whiplash claim though.”
“Don’t slow down,” Jackson orders.
Tension is a living, thick, suffocating thing weighing down on us all as Koby’s maneuvers become more daring, but the last sedan matches us move for move.
Rookie’s flying down the road beside us, his expression unfazed as always. He’s been Dante’s star driver since day one, and given his nonchalant skills, I get why.
“Nate had a point,” he says, stepping off the gas to fall back. “I’m bored of this shit.”
Immediately, the screech of tires fills the air. Both Jackson and Rookie wrench their Range Rovers sideways, blocking the sedan. It can’t brake fast enough, piledriving into Rookie’s back door.
“Score!” Broadway exclaims. “You alright there?”
“All good. I’ll see you soon.Don’tslow down.”
“Not a chance,” Koby mutters, pushing the car to its limits for twenty minutes, taking a series of turns before he risks slowing down to see if anyone’s still following.
After another ten minutes of constant looking over my shoulder, my muscles slowly unwind. “Looks like we’re clear.”
“You sound surprised,” Ryder muses, turning in his seat. “Should we drive around a bit longer?”
“No. Get us to Illinois.” I grab a pack of antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit, tearing it open with my teeth. “Come on, Hailey. I need to patch you up.”
Slowly, she pulls away, glancing at Broadway who’s hauling out medical supplies. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
She opens her mouth, but it shuts when I start gently cleaning the graze on her arm. The way she flinches with every touch... fuck, I want to go back and kill every last one of Blaze’s pawns, then put a bullet in the man himself.
