Kanyan (Gatti Enforcers #1)

34. Kanyan

34

KANYAN

T he van swerves left, its tires screeching as it merges into a chaotic intersection. Five other identical vans spill into the street like a swarm of insects, weaving in and out of traffic as though choreographed to confuse us. My pulse spikes as I watch the convoy scatter, each one overtaking the others in a dizzying dance meant to throw us off.

“Damn it,” Scar mutters from the passenger seat, his fists clenched as he slams them against the dashboard. “Which one is it?”

I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I gun the engine and barrel forward. My eyes dart between the vans, each one disappearing and reappearing as they cut through the narrow streets. “I don’t know,” I growl, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “But we can’t lose them.”

The comms crackle to life. Dante’s calm voice cuts through the static, giving orders. “Break off. Everyone takes a van. Do not lose them. Call in as soon as you have a positive ID.”

Scar snaps into action, grabbing his phone and relaying Dante’s orders to the other cars in our convoy. My focus sharpens as I fixate on the closest van, its taillights flashing like a target in the darkness. “This one’s ours,” I say, jerking the wheel to follow it.

Scar glances at me, his jaw set. “You better be right, Kanyan.”

The streets blur around us as we give chase. The van ahead of us cuts through intersections, narrowly avoiding collisions as it tears through the city. An early morning jogger dives out of the way, and horns blare, but I keep my foot pressed to the gas. There’s no time for hesitation, no room for mistakes. Lula and Allegra are in one of those vans, and I’ll be damned if I let them slip through our fingers again.

“They’re trying to confuse us,” Scar says, his voice tight.

“Do I look confused to you?” I grit out, my eyes locked on the van. “They can’t outrun us.”

The van veers suddenly into a side street, and I follow without hesitation. The tires squeal as I take the turn, the car fishtailing for a moment before I regain control. Scar’s hand shoots out to brace himself against the dashboard.

“This better not end with us in a ditch,” he mutters.

“Not planning on it,” I snap, yanking the wheel to avoid a stack of crates someone’s left in the middle of the road. The van ahead of us accelerates, disappearing around another corner, but I don’t let up. The adrenaline pumping through my veins keeps me laser-focused, every instinct screaming at me to keep going.

“Are they slowing down?” Scar asks, squinting at the van. “Or is it just me?”

“They’re baiting us,” I say through gritted teeth. “Trying to make us think we’ve got them so we’ll ease up.”

“Not happening,” Scar says, his voice as hard as mine.

Up ahead, the van abruptly cuts into another street, nearly sideswiping a parked car in the process. I follow, my car skimming so close to the curb I can feel the tires scrape against the edge. The street is narrower here, the buildings pressing in on either side, and the van’s movements grow more erratic.

“They’re desperate,” Scar says.

“Good,” I reply. “Desperate means mistakes.”

And then it happens. The van ahead of us clips a lamppost, the metal screeching as the back bumper crumples. It swerves wildly, and for a moment, I think it’s going to spin out completely. My heart pounds as I seize the opportunity, pushing the car to its limit to close the distance.

“Get closer,” Scar barks, his hand moving to the handle of his gun.

“I’m trying!” I snap back, the engine roaring as I push the pedal to the floor.

We’re nearly there, just a few feet away, when the van suddenly slams on the brakes. I swerve hard, narrowly avoiding a collision as the van screeches to a halt. A figure jumps out of the passenger side, waving a gun, and Scar doesn’t hesitate. He’s out of the car in a flash, firing a warning shot that sends the man diving for cover.

I’m right behind him, my gun drawn as I move toward the van. But when I yank the door open, it’s empty. Completely empty.

“Damn it!” I roar, slamming my fist against the metal frame.

Scar curses under his breath, his eyes scanning the street. “They switched them out. We got the decoy.”

My chest heaves as I try to reign in my anger, but it’s no use. Every second we waste here is another second they’re getting farther away.

The comms crackle again, and Dante’s voice comes through. “Anyone have eyes on the girls?”

“We lost them,” Scar replies, his tone sharp. “The van we followed was empty. Decoy.”

There’s a pause, then Dante speaks again. “Keep looking. They can’t have gotten far.”

I glance at Scar, and he nods. Without another word, he walks up to the man who was driving the van and lifts his head, looking down at him menacingly. “Where are they?” he asks.

The man doesn’t respond, his dark eyes boring into us insolently.

“One more time,” I warn. “Where are the girls?”

His silence buys him a bullet at close range. Scar drops the man’s head and within seconds, we’re back in the car, the engine roaring to life as I slam on the gas.

“We’ll find them,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.

We have to. Because if we don’t, I don’t even want to think about the alternative.

The burgeoning storm outside matches the one clawing at my chest. Memories press down on me like a chokehold, dragging me back to a time I’ve spent years trying to bury.

My mother’s face surfaces first, as clear as if she were sitting beside me. Her dark eyes, always flitting between hope and exhaustion. Her soft voice, telling me not to worry about her. No matter how many black eyes she hid with makeup or how many lies she told to cover for the latest loser she let into our lives, she always professed that she was fine.

By the time I was twelve, I’d learned how to patch up her split lips and bruised ribs better than most ER doctors. She always smiled through the pain, swearing it wasn’t as bad as it looked, that my father just needed a little understanding. And after I got rid of him when I was seventeen, she merely gravitated to the same sort of danger she’d attracted in my father in the first place.

She had a knack for picking the worst kind of men, the ones who fed off her softness and drained her dry. But the day I found her in the trailer... that’s the day I can’t forget. The day I can’t erase.

I had skipped work at the shop because something didn’t sit right with me. She hadn’t called in a week, which wasn’t unusual when she was wrapped up in her latest relationship, but something in my gut told me to check on her. I drove out to that dump of a trailer park on the edge of town, the one with broken beer bottles littering the dirt roads and kids playing barefoot next to rusted-out cars.

The door to her trailer was unlocked. My stomach dropped as I stepped inside.

She was crumpled on the floor, her body bent in ways it shouldn’t have been. Blood stained her hairline and streaked down her face, and her lip was swollen to twice its size. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, like each one was a battle that she wasn’t sure she’d win.

I froze. For one second, just one, I stood there like an idiot, staring. My mom, my mom , was broken on the ground, and all I could do was stand there, useless. Then I dropped to my knees and grabbed her hand.

“Ma? Ma, can you hear me?” My voice cracked, and I hated how scared I sounded.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she opened one swollen eye. She tried to smile. ‘ Kanyan ,’ she whispered, like my name was her last lifeline. ‘ Boy, you sure do have lousy timing, don’t you ?’

“Timing?” I barked, my anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re lying in a pool of your own blood, and you’re talking to me about timing?”

Her smile faltered, and she reached for my face with trembling fingers. ‘ Don’t be mad ,’ she said softly, like it was me who had done something wrong. ‘ Do better .’

I couldn’t stop the tears that burned the back of my eyes as I scooped her up and carried her to the car. She whimpered, her body too fragile, too damaged. The man who had done this to her was long gone, of course. They always were. I hated him, but more than that, I hated myself for not being there sooner. For not forcing her to leave before it got to this point.

Timing. It was always about timing.

I got her to the hospital, but it was too late to save her spirit. She lived that day, but something in her broke, something I couldn’t fix. And I’ve been carrying the weight of it ever since. When she died a few weeks later, my heart died with her.

I should’ve forced my mother to leave. Dragged her out, kicking and screaming if I had to. I tell myself I won’t make the same mistake with Lula. I’ll protect her, even if she hates me for it.

But deep down, I know the truth: no matter how many women I save, it’ll never be enough to erase the memory of the one I couldn’t.