“I got him.”
“Real street niggas pay attention even when you think they not,” Booda warned, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
The Challenger ahead of me switched lanes without signaling, and I followed a few seconds later, careful not to move too fast.The streets were thinning out now. Less traffic. Fewer witnesses. Just long stretches of road and scattered headlights cutting through the dark.
Then his brake lights flashed, and my stomach dropped. He didn’t stop, but I could see his eyes through the rearview mirror, watching me hit the brakes right after.
“That nigga see you,” Booda said calmly, and a second later, the Challenger shot forward.
“Fuck.”
The engine roared as he punched the gas, weaving through traffic. I slammed my foot down too, my tires whining as I pushed after him.
The city blurred. Streetlights whipped past in flashes. Cars swerved out of the way. A truck lay on its horn as the Challenger cut across three lanes without warning. My pulse hammered so hard it started climbing into my throat.
“He's running,” I whispered.
“'Cause he knows exactly who’s behind him.”
The Challenger flew through a red light, and I followed. A car coming from the opposite direction barely missed me, its headlights exploding across my windshield before disappearing behind me.
Somebody screamed through an open window. Tires shrieked against pavement, and the smell of burning rubber pushed through my vents. Still, I kept going.
The Challenger jerked onto an exit ramp too fast, and I saw the mistake before he did. The back tires lost traction, and the entire car fishtailed violently. It slid sideways across the pavement before the driver overcorrected.
The car clipped the guardrail, and the entire passenger side burst apart in a spray of sparks and shattered glass.
“Oh shit!” I yelled, watching it flip.
Once.
Twice.
Glass exploded everywhere.
The car landed upside down with a sound so violent it shook through my chest.
Smoke curled into the air.
I slammed on my brakes so hard the seatbelt cut into my shoulder. My car skidded sideways before coming to a stop near the wreckage. For a second, everything was quiet except for the ticking of my engine and the faint crackle coming from the flipped car.
I stared at it.
My breathing turned shallow.
Then Booda opened his door and stepped out. I followed right behind him.
The Challenger looked crushed from top to bottom. One wheel still spun slowly in the air while smoke seeped from beneath the hood. The windshield had shattered completely.
The woman inside was dead. I knew it before I even reached her. Her body hung halfway twisted in the passenger seat, upside down from the seatbelt, with her head bent at an angle no living person could survive. Blood poured from her nose and disappeared into her hairline. Her eyes were still open.
I froze for half a second. Not because she was dead, but because she looked young.
“Don’t worry about her,” Booda said, moving around to the other side of the car.
The driver groaned, and that pulled my attention back fast. He was still alive, barely. Blood covered the side of his face, and one of his arms looked broken in several places.
His eyes cracked open when he saw Booda and me standing there. Fear hit his face instantly. He recognized us.
