4. Bay
FOUR
bay
The loud pop and squealing of tires sounds over the eight dirt bikes ahead of me. They’re careful not to get swiped by the 18-wheeler that just had some of its wheels blown out as Levi sits calmly in the passenger seat, eyes intently locked on the marked semi like prey being waved in front of his face.
We follow behind, waiting for it to slow down on the dark two-lane road we’re on so that we can take what we came for.
Guns.
Ammo.
And God knows what else.
All on route to the Forsaken Crew with one problem—it’s cruisin’ through South Shore like it really had a probability to make it out of here.
I wasn’t supposed to go on this run, said I wasn’t going to, but I’m still a tad amped up on my run-in with Torin.
After our reunion , I had no other issues that came up. I dropped off the dope, collected the money, and went home the right way.
So, on that note, I’m taking the chance of Sheriff Muncy popping our asses for reckless driving, theft, and maybe attempted murder.
The dude’s a fucking asshole so I’m sure there’d be more if he caught up.
As soon as the semi gets to a rolling fifteen miles an hour, the back gates burst open and so does the gunfire.
I pull the Toyota Supra I’m driving to the left, just as one of the doors slams back shut into the faces of the men protecting the guns.
“Stay in the car,” Levi orders, the moment I whip the car around, bringing the backend squealing in protest to meet the rear of the giant truck.
Stepping on the gas in reverse now, I get closer, pending the final stop of the big rig. When it does, I stomp on the brake and hit the gas, beginning my burn out so that I can smoke the dudes inside out, keep their vision disabled while our guys get a handle on the driver.
An eruption of blind gunfire immediately begins striking the polyurethane material of the Supra as Levi’s large palm pushes the back of my skull down to take cover.
“You’re fucking insane,” he carps out, but there’s no malice behind it because it’s pretty damn genius and might give us the upper hand in this already risky scenario.
The high pitch of my tires fuels my adrenaline, keeping my feet perfectly still on the brake and gas.
A bullet suddenly rips through the back window, shattering glass through the car, and Levi curses.
“Let off, Bay.”
I don’t.
Because I haven’t choked them all out yet.
“Hold on,” I quip, raising my head up just enough to see out of the driver’s side window. “Almost there.”
“I’m not takin’ you home to your dad with a bullet lodged in your skull,” he snaps, still holding on to it. “Let off .”
A loud horn honks then, on cue, alluding that one of our guys has gotten inside the cab of the truck.
Removing my foot off the brake, the Supra’s tires let loose, and I gain traction from the hot rubber sticking to the warm cement. The car takes off a few yards before I cartwheel it around and see that the assholes from the semi have already jumped out and are raining down hell on our remaining guys.
And my stupid best friend…he opens the door, about to do a tuck ‘n’ roll, and obtain a whole lotta road rash if I don’t stop this car on a dime.
“Stay the fuck here,” he yells out when I get to a full halt before sprinting forward and lifting his own AK-47 up to start peppering bullets in their direction.
He’s not out but ten seconds before headlights show up in my rearview mirror, announcing that we either have company or an innocent bystander.
And when red and blue lights promptly shine and reflect off the forest on each side of the road, it’s not the kind of guests we want at this party.
Inhaling a deep breath of bravery, I hit the gas again and bring the front end around to face the cop head-on.
I hate this game. And I hate that I even thought of it in the first place.
Nailing the gas, the car immediately reacts with assistance to the turbo hooked up.
This thing has a buyer already. We’re supposed to be shipping it to Japan by the end of the week.
However, with the new bullet holes and the about-to-be-wrecked front end, I think we just lost out on a few grand, and Levi is gonna be pissed.
The game—chicken.
It consists of whoever can swerve out of the way first before both vehicles colliding. But, I need the cop to take a nosedive into the ditch instead of just passing by me.
I haven’t played this since I was sixteen like a dumbass and almost got someone killed. And now, five years later, I’m still the same dumbass about to play again.
The lights get closer as I speed ahead, the pig in front of me flashing his or her brights on and off in warning to stop.
I can’t, of course.
I got eight guys and Levi behind me. None are going to jail for taking what shouldn’t be riding in our streets to begin with. South Shore has no problem working with our surrounding communities, except for one.
The Landings.
The cop in front of me abruptly changes direction and swings to the right, striking the gravel shoulder and the deep dip into the grass. I don’t hear the crash over my music, but the surprise of the blacked-out SUV that just turned sideways to open fire on me does.
Bullets pepper my windshield, spider webbing the glass into threats of breaking. A slug hits the seat that Levi was just sitting in and blows the fabric and padding into bits all around me. I pull the car around for the third or fourth time—lost count already—to speed back to the boys to get the fuck out of here. The unforgiving bullets still slap into the car that is now past the point of salvageable.
Levi is going to straight up assassinate me.
But I can’t control the way this shit went down and I’m playing decoy so they can mow down the guys in the back of the semi and get it out of here.
Pushing down on my horn to warn the guys that we have company, I can’t see a fucking thing with the window becoming a maze of lines and holes.
With my palm I hit the surface, hoping for luck to be on my side, and shattered into pieces so I can see where I’m going.
It doesn’t.
Rolling my window down, I have no other choice but to stick my head out for visability. And it’s no easy feat because I’m not super tall and the tip of my black Chucks are barely touching the gas.
I see the rear brake lights of dirt bikes ready to take off down the street, giving me instant relief that the boys are heading deeper into South Shore territory when my car feels like it hit a pothole and begins to drag on the left side.
I know the feeling all too well—a tire blew out.
Keeping the very edge of my shoe on the gas, I force the car to carry its speed, regardless of its loss of leg. The screeching of aluminum and steel pierces my ears against concrete as I hold on to the side of the door to keep a clear sight of the road ahead. My heart, for the first time, slams violently in my chest out of fear and not a state of excitement.
I’m in some deep, deep bullshit.
Dad, Ellie, and Mae flash through my head immediately as I push my borrowed car through the vacant street and pray either they give up on me, or I can at least outrun them to where the boys will take care of the rest.
No such luck, though.
I’m spun around, my body thrown back into my seat as the car spins and whines, almost flipping on its side as I haul all of my skills out to gently slow it down. The shrill of brakes overtakes the skip of my phone linked to my speakers, and I know they’re here.
My mind quickly races at what to do, what’s the safest route, as I yank back on the latch to the glove compartment to pull out the nine-millimeter gun Levi put there. I recognize that I’m easily outnumbered. I’m positive Levi is going to notice me missing any second now if he hasn’t already.
However, it’s not going to help me if he doesn’t get his tattooed ass over here to pick up my slack.
“Put your hands up,” a loud and deep voice snaps at my left, causing me to hastily hide my weapon at my side.
Glimpsing over my shoulder, an oversized dude in a black shirt that screams for more room and thick gold chains glares down at me with the barrel of his formidable gun pointed down at my chest.
My door is then jerked open, issuing me out of my safe space as I start to slide out and shove my own weapon into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Bring her over here,” snaps another male voice to where my shirt is immediately seized and my whole body is careening forward, bumping into the asshole who didn’t give me but half a second to get out of my car.
Shoved forward, I come face to face with a guy I don’t recognize. He’s in his late twenties, with medium brown hair blended with red tints.
He’s…plain.
His face thin with hollow cheeks and dark chocolate eyes that intently study me like a freak show, and I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled to see him either.
“Didn’t expect a girl to be in the car,” he vouches flatly, spinning the chamber of his gun and clicking it back into place. His index finger floats over the trigger, but he keeps it aimed at the ground. “What’s your name?”
“Nobody,” I deadpan, lifting my chin and watching for any sudden movements.
“Nobody.” He bobs his head at my remark as if he doesn’t care. “Well, nobody, where’s my truck?”
“What truck?” The guy behind me must lift his fist or weapon to hit me because the dude in front of me raises his hand to stop that from happening.
“One more chance, girl. Your buying time isn’t lost on me, and your death is something that won’t matter.”
“You’re really sellin’ it here.”
He perks a haughty brow. “You must be either deaf, dumb, or looking for a problems if you don’t know who I am.”
I mean, should I?
Like I said, he appears pretty basic to me, and if he wanted to make an impression, he shouldn’t have brought the backup.
“I don’t roam around in a lot of social circles,” I claim as he stares back at me, and I don’t enjoy how I can’t read his expression.
It’s almost as if he’s a robot.
“I’m Ramsey Wildes.” He pins me down with his browns with just that name alone. “And if I don’t have my fuckin’ truck returned to me in the next hour, I’m going to spill a whole lot of South Shore blood.”
Welp…
I just strode into another pile of dog shit, and I might as well just off myself right here.
Two Wildes boys in a row. I mean, if I had any good luck, it might just kill me. And not only am I extremely privy to Torin, I’ve only heard of Ramsey and how he’s cutthroat, merciless, and a fuckwad.
Ramsey takes a step forward, attempting to use my current position and his name to his advantage. “You are gonna tell me where my shit is, girl.”
“I’m not a fucking girl,” I leer back through his disrespect. “I’m not twelve, dude.”
“With the decision you just made, a woman wouldn’t have been so stupid as to steal a truck with thousands of dollars of guns in the back.”
“Damn…and I thought it was candy.”
A ghost of a smirk plays along his face before he’s giving a curt nod, and the back of a rifle is slammed into my spine.
My knees almost buckle as immediate pain welcomes and warns me to keep my big mouth shut for once in my damn life.
He doesn’t seem like a guy who’s going to allow me to walk home, especially since I just got done stealing his shit. Add in that he’s Emilio Wildes’s son, and I might be begging for my life by the end of the night.
The familiar click—that famous sound of danger—of a gun lodging a bullet into place ping pongs between me and Ramsey Wildes and it’s come to this.
Me versus the eldest heir of the prick who terrorizes my city.
With the few things I’ve heard about Ramsey Wildes, I’m still not adequate enough to know his next move. So I better just shut the fuck up here. The blow to my now aching spine is another wave of caution that he’d have a female hit without a problem to get what he wants.
Mind you, I’ve taken worse in my life, been jumped by a group of girls in high school, and had my fair share of rumbles, received Matteo’s fists a time or three hundred, but not a showdown.
Guess I’m about to have one now.
Slicing my gaze up to Ramsey, the glinting silver cylinder of his is marked on me—his new target.
“Gonna need some specifics now,” he vouches calmly. “Where is the truck going?”
Reaching behind me, he doesn’t move. No one does.
I’m just a girl after all.
Loading Levi’s gun with a bullet in the chamber, I raise it and point. I expect to be shot on the spot because I’m not going to get tortured for this shit.
Dad, Ellie, and Mae need you, dumbass.
Either way—gun directed or not—I’m not leaving here without having my ass handed to me. He’s either going to have me shot here and now, and if he does, I’m taking him with me.
Unless it’s a headshot, then I’m fucked.
“You’re more than you look,” Ramsey muses, his men aiming their semi-automatics at me. “Lower your shit,” he barks out then. “She shoots me, I deserve it for not blowing her head off the moment she stepped out of the car.”
“Sweetest shit anyone has ever said to me.”
He smiles again, and it’s not an easy one this time but sinister with fucked-up thoughts behind it. It’s only a second later that I hear dirt bikes ricocheting off the trees to my right.
The boys are back, and Ramsey Wildes is gonna be in trouble, hey, na, hey, na, my best friend’s back.
“So, how are we doing this?” I press, buying his sole attention and not the unmistakable whine of what’s to come.
“Depends,” Ramsey replies flatly, not appearing to give any thought to what’s coming through the silence of the night surrounding us. “Give me what I need, or do you want me to make a pretty little hole with my gun that I can fuck later?”
Ew.
Okay, so he’s the fucking freak, not me.
“What if I told you I don’t know?” I offer. “I was just the getaway car.”
“Then I’d tell you not to quit your day job. And that I’m very limited on patience.”
Same.
“Then I’m gonna have to insist that you might wanna get into your vehicle, Mr. Wildes.”
“That’s my father.”
“Well, if you wanna see him again…” The rev of one bike finally gains Ramsey’s attention as he flicks it to the looming forest that holds, not only my heroes, but boys who aren’t afraid of flying bullets or not going home tonight. They live off danger and fucked-up jobs that are handed down by The Nameless.
Shit, for all I know, some of those boys are part of South Shore’s gang, though I’m not going to ask any questions.
Ramsey steps back, as if he knows that if he doesn’t move closer to his black SUV, he might not make it in time before projectiles fly all around him. And I’m sure Daddy Wildes would like him snug in his bed and at breakfast tomorrow.
He mindlessly lowers his weapon, which is stupid because mine is still raised in the air.
However, he’s too entranced by what’s about to come down the line. As though he’s just waiting for something.
Meanwhile, I’m so beyond relieved I can’t even express it in words.
The whine of dirt bikes breaches through the tall trees, the cracking of assault rifles going off from both sides, and I flick my focus to each bike, searching for Levi with each appearance through the forest.
Then I spot him, white t-shirt and a red stain at his shoulder.
Shit.
Moving toward the back of the beaten Supra, I impatiently wait behind it, hunched down to not catch a bullet and stew over him getting hit.
This is why I didn’t want us involved in gang shit.
But here we are doing business for them while risking our lives. This war, both rival gangs, the fact that someone broke into my home the other night, I crave so much more for my family than this.
I love South Shore, but at what cost?
I hear a truck take off and some bikes go after it before one creeps closer, and I already know who it is.
Glimpsing over my shoulder, I find Levi on the back of a bike with Juice, his hardened stare on me, and combing over my body for what I immediately noticed earlier on him.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Car looks solid, Bay,” Juice teases, chewing on his gum and only pointing out what I didn’t want to deal with right now.
His deep emeralds look playful because he loves this shit, and I roll my eyes because it was anything but fun just a few moments ago.
“Shut up,” I grumble, rising to my feet and looking behind me at the road. Ramsey and his band of dickheads are already gone with the boys, chasing them out of South Shore like I thought.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Levi orders. “Hot Rod is gonna drive you home.”
And on cue, he’s rollin’ upon us with his lime green dirt bike and a cheesy smile on his face. “Hey, girl, badass drivin’.”
“Dude nailed me in the tire.”
He shrugs, his muscles testing the seams of his black tee. The dude could lift this car and carry it home if I needed him to. “Happens.”
“Get her home, Rod,” Levi carps out. “She’s got school?—”
“I’m headin’ to the yard,” I retort sharply through narrowed eyes. “The quicker we get those guns loaded up and sent out, the better for all of us. That was Ramsey Wildes, Lev.”
My best friend’s face turns deadly as Juice strums his fingers along the rubber handles of his bike. “Sorry to say, but your ass ain’t pickin’ up heavy ass crates,” he chomps out. “You’re gettin’ too skinny, chicka.”
“Then I’ll stare at yours and catcall you to make you feel special,” I deadpan through a stale-ass expression.
Juice winks at me, his light-hearted nature welcoming right now. “Sounds good to me.”
“Whose blood is that?” I ask, and Levi only spares me half a second before analyzing the street again.
“Not mine. And you’ll stay out of the way.” He declares it as though he’s the boss of this gig. And maybe he is, since Juice and Hot Rod are always following him like two lost puppy dogs.
I salute him with two fingers across my forehead. “Won’t be a problem.”
I’ll be asleep on top of a shipping container while these dummies are loading up the ship with the stolen guns and sending them off to wherever their destination is to.