Page 393 of Devil’s Disciples

The SUV fishtailed. The engine revved. My heart faltered. The vehicle slid out of control. Everything started spinning. What was left of my life flashed in front of my eyes. With screeching tires, the vehicle was thrust back onto the roadway. When the rear tires contacted the pavement, we damned near flipped over.

The headlights behind us went dark. The sound of steel crunching made me cringe.

“Jesus, fuck!” Reno shouted. “Cop hit that tree.”

“Thank fucking God,” Cash exclaimed, glancing into the rearview mirror. “What now Bake?”

“Get the fuck out of here. Take backroads home. Not the highway. As soon as you get where we can do it without raising eyebrows, switch the plates on this fucker.”

“Back to the legal plates?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Baker responded. “I’m sure he called in this plate number. They’ll be looking for it.”

The thought of driving the vehicle five hours or more through the backroads with our legal plate on the rear made me more nervous than I already was.

But Baker was right.

Undoubtedly, they’d be looking for the plate that was on the vehicle. If a cop saw us with that plate attached, they’d be on us like white on rice. If we switched plates, we’d blend in with the other five thousand BMW SUVs on the roadway.

“I say we take the highway,” I suggested. “We’ll blend in with the other BMWs. After we switch plates. If we take the backroads, we’ll be the only flat black BMW SUV in existence.”

“Good point,” Baker said. “Find a place to pull over.”

My mouth had gone dry. My stomach was knotted. I realized I still had a death grip on the “oh shit” handle and released it.

Ghost’s absence was killing us.

I closed my eyes. I wasn’t worried about the night’s botched job. Nor did I care about any upcoming jobs. All I wanted to do was make back to San Diego alive.

I needed to leave a note on the board at my newfound favorite diner, Abby’s Place.

From there, I’d decide what my next move was.

145

Ally

I parked my car on the concrete drive behind the house. As soon as I shut the car door, Goose shouted at me from over the roof’s edge. “I’m up here.”

I looked up. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d seen him, but he looked different. His face was gaunt and covered in a few days’ growth of whiskers. The skin underneath his eyes was dark. He needed sleep. Desperately, I might add.

“Coming up,” I said.

When I reached the roof, I gawked at the sight of him. Dirty handprints peppered his normally pristine white tee shirt. His jeans were covered in a light film of gray dirt, as were his boots. He was filthy from head to toe.

He came limping toward me.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Got everything cleaned up,” he said. “Worst fucking night of my life.”

“No. What happened to your legs? You’re limping.”

“Bad fucking night, that’s all,” he said. “Just got home, to be honest. Left a message at the diner, drove here, and walked up the steps. Haven’t even been inside yet.”

“You look like hell.”

“Feel worse,” he said.