Chapter Two
Al
Just a test-drive. That was all this was. I didn’t have to sign anything. I didn’t have to commit to anything. The salesman was going to be disappointed, but he was the one who’d said, “Take it around the block, feel it out, see how she runs.”
Just a ride.
Twenty grand was twenty grand more than I could afford right now.
So, just a ride.
What use did I even have for a car like this anymore?
My life had become a neat little loop between the academy and off-world assignments.
Administrative work, budgets, curriculum reviews, disciplinary hearings, and endless paperwork swallowed the rest of my time.
Responsibility had a way of quietly sanding a person down.
Year after year. Not violently. Not dramatically.
Just slowly, until the sharper parts of you, the reckless parts, were worn smooth and dull.
So, this wasn’t a relapse. This was nostalgia. A pleasure ride. Nothing else.
At least that’s what I was telling myself.
I pressed the clutch and turned the key, listening to the engine roar into life.
I’d expected a hesitant startup or the embarrassed sputter of something neglected, but no; this was a deep, confident ignition, the kind that rolled up through the frame of the car like the growl of a beast as the Mustang’s V8 settled into a low, steady rumble.
Gods. That sound. The noise alone was enough to wake something in me, something long since buried by monotonous days of paperwork and all the tedium that came with being the head of an academy; the memories of racing from the cops in my cherry-red 1969 Mustang, her tires burning, her radio howling, the wind that whipped across her windscreen pushing her down low to the road as we sped like idiots through the streets of Texas together.
Those days were supposed to be behind me, but I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until that moment.
The vibration of the Mustang’s engine ran up through the steering column and into my palms. It felt alive in a way most modern vehicles simply didn’t; it was the kind of machine built when cars were family members, not just an oversized gadget of convenience.
The engine idled with that slow, muscular rhythm, asking me a question.
Shall we?
Something in my chest answered, something old. Something that had been buried under years of meetings and rules and polite expectations.
Twenty grand isn’t terrible.
I chased that thought away before it could take root.
One heist. One off-the-books job. The money doesn’t have to be clean.
I shut that thought down even harder.
That version of my life was over! Finished! Retired, along with the younger, more reckless man who used to chase adrenaline. But sitting here, hands on the wheel, engine rumbling beneath me…
Something inside my ribs was stretching awake after a long sleep.
Maybe it was the vibration of the engine.
Maybe the smell of gasoline and warm metal.
Or maybe it was simply a reminder of who I used to be.
I rolled up my sleeves slowly, exposing the tattoos on my forearms, ink I usually kept hidden under the tidy uniform of academia.
It felt strangely ceremonial, like shedding a skin I’d grown tired of wearing.
“I mean, we can always do a little negotiating,” the dealer muttered, mistaking my delay for hesitation.
I tapped the accelerator lightly, and the engine responded with a sharp, eager growl.
There was a faint squeak somewhere under the hood as the revs climbed, not loud enough to suggest real trouble, but definitely not perfect either.
A loose belt, maybe; something that hadn’t been tightened properly, the kind of small flaw that knocks a few hundred off a used car price if you push hard enough.
So the twenty grand wasn’t quite as firm as the dealer suggested.
I slid the shifter into first gear and slowly eased off the clutch.
The Mustang rolled forward out of the dealership lot with the lazy confidence of a predator stretching after a nap.
The street outside was mostly empty; the dealership was out of the way, not exactly prime real estate—no wonder the Mustang hadn’t moved all year.
I surveyed the road. A few pickup trucks trundled towards the highway, and a delivery van passed in the opposite lane.
There was plenty of space, and I wasn’t planning anything too reckless.
I really wasn’t.
I intended to take it easy. Feel the handling. Maybe push the engine a little just to see how it responds. Nothing dramatic.
But the Mustang had other plans.
The moment we reached the road, the engine revved higher than my foot demanded. The car surged forward eagerly, like it had been waiting years for someone to let it run.
“Easy,” I murmured, easing off the gas.
The car ignored me.
The steering wheel tugged slightly in my hands, then more firmly. The nose of the Mustang pulled toward the highway entrance, not where I was steering, and a cold trickle of panic slid down my spine.
I corrected the wheel.
The car corrected itself. Its tires drifted toward the on-ramp like they were following a magnet buried under the asphalt.
“Okay, that’s—”
Something was very wrong. The wheel resisted my pull again, heavy and stubborn.
I tried guiding us toward a quiet industrial side street instead, but the car dragged itself back toward the on-ramp.
Before I could properly process what was happening, the black ’92 Fox Body Mustang was already climbing onto the highway.
Second gear.
The engine roared with delight.
Third.
The acceleration shoved me deeper into the seat.
Fourth.
The speedometer needle began sweeping across the dial faster than comfort allowed.
“—Don’t be afraid–.” The radio lit up and spat out a few lines of music before switching stations, dull static humming.
I turned to the dealer, who was wide-eyed, holding onto the grab-handle for dear life. It obviously hadn’t been his voice.
“—Come on, baby,—” The radio sang over a new channel, but the same song; Don’t Fear The Reaper. A cheesy ‘Christine’ rip-off, but it worked. I felt the hairs rise along the back of my neck, and in the rearview mirror, something shifted.
At first, I thought it was just sunlight reflecting off a car behind us, but the highway was empty.
The shape lingered anyway. A shadow that didn’t quite belong to the interior of the car.
Something was leaning just slightly forward from the darkness behind the back seat, watching me.
I quickly looked away. Anyone else might have been losing their mind right about now.
But I’d spent enough time around supernatural nonsense for this to feel pretty normal. Hell, this wasn’t even my first possessed vehicle. Still, I was at its mercy, and I wasn’t sure yet what it wanted from me.
The Mustang growled in approval, enjoying the game it was playing with me.
“P-please,” The salesman next to me stuttered, reaching for the seatbelt. It refused to pull down. “We can discuss the price back at the lot. Please. Turn around.”
I saw a smile flash in the back mirror.
“I think we can discuss it right now.” I pushed the gas pedal to the floor, the speedometer dial climbing across the numbers at an alarming rate.
“E-eighteen t-thousand!” The salesman squeaked, covering his eyes.
“I think we can go a little bit lower. Don’t you?” I shifted into fifth gear, letting the Mustang push its limit and the limit of the dealer’s resolve.
“Fine! Fine! Fifteen!”
Better, but still more than I was willing to spend. I lifted off the gas, tapped the brake, then snapped the wheel left.
The rear tires broke loose instantly. The Mustang slid sideways across four empty lanes in a perfect power drift, its rear end swinging wide as it spun through a smooth, flawless 180-degree arc. The smell of burning rubber filled the cabin, sending the dealer into a choking fit.
“Think about it on the way back.” I caught the wheel as the car straightened, now pointed back toward the city. “Twelve grand is more than fair.” I revved the engine, meeting the terrified eyes of the poor salesman. “I think quite a few parts need replacement. Tires, for one.”
I dumped the clutch.
The rear wheels screamed against the pavement, shredding what little rubber remained before the Mustang hooked up and tore down the road toward the dealership.