Chapter 7 Talon’s Past #2
The Camaro lunges forward. Tires scream. The engine roars like a heartbeat made of gunfire. The first stretch is all raw speed, the industrial strip’s cracked asphalt whipping under us. Neon from streetlamps blurs into gold streaks on the hood.
Lark’s laughing beside me, one hand gripping the roll bar, the other pointing ahead like I need directions.
“Take him on the inside!” she yells over the engine.
I do. We slip past a silver Skyline with barely a breath between our mirrors.
For a few laps, it’s clean. Almost fun. The Camaro handles like she’s reading my mind. I forget the stakes, the danger, the fact that I’m on Rey’s turf with my name one whisper away from getting me buried.
And then—
I see them.
Two guys near the south barricade, half in shadow, leaning just far enough into the light for me to catch the tattoos on their throats. Rey’s crew. Not the party kind. The real ones. The guards.
Fuck.
It takes only a second. We blur past, but my eyes lock with one of them. Bald head, scar on his temple, a grimace sewn onto his face. I know him. And he knows me. Last spring he nearly killed Baker in a turf meet-up. I broke his arm to make him back off.
Oh, hell no.
We’re already gone, but cold slides down my spine. You don’t forget the guy who broke your arm—especially not when you’ve been hunting him for a year and a half.
My grip tightens. Lark notices.
“What?” she shouts.
Fuck.
My mind races. Did the hair cover me? It was just a split second. Maybe he didn’t recognize me.
“Quick question,” I breathe. “How fast would your contact text you if something went wrong with our in?”
Her smile drops.
“Talon…”
“Just answer me.”
She doesn’t. She yanks her phone from her pocket and curses as a message pops up. She doesn’t read it out loud, but I can guess it says something like: What the fuck did you bring me into, Lark? Your driver’s a Fisher boy.
Heh. There you go, Talon—drink the shit you brew.
“Talon,” Lark says again, panic creeping into her voice. “What the hell is going on?”
Only one answer fits.
“They know,” I say, gunning the Camaro into the next corner harder than I should. Tires shriek. The backend fishtails.
“Know what?!”
“Who I am.”
She stares at me, confused—and fair enough. Even she doesn’t know who I really am. But she can connect the dots. I keep my eyes on the road, pushing the Camaro so hard the engine snarls like it wants to tear itself free.
The two crew boys vanish into the crowd as we rocket past the next bend.
My gut twists.
“We need to get out of here,” I say.
That makes her blink. Then: “No. Hell no.” Her voice is sharp. “You gotta finish the race, dude. Just get to the finish line, then we’ll run.”
“What the fuck will that do?!”
She grabs my arm. “It’s ten grand.”
As if they’d give it to us.
“Lark,” I snap, “ten grand won’t matter when we’re both dead.”
I slam through the next turn, cutting two drivers off so close their horns merge into one long scream. The Camaro shudders, but she holds. My eyes flick to the gap in the fencing at the east end. There’s an emergency exit straight into the alleys.
Behind us, a pair of headlights break from the crowd. Too fast to be a civilian. They’re on us in seconds.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Lark twists in her seat. “What the fuck didn’t you tell me, Talon?!”
Yeah. No point lying now.
“I’m something of a... Fisher’s racer,” I bite out. “I’m in his crew.”
Her face drains. Her eyes go wide, like she’s just realized she’s been riding shotgun with a live grenade. She was. She vibes with Rey’s crew. Maybe just one guy or two, but it’s enough.
And hell, I don’t just vibe with Fisher’s guys. I am his guy.
“You—” she starts, but whatever she means to say dies in her throat.
The headlights behind us close in, ramming distance now. The Camaro jolts forward with every hit of the gas, the engine screaming in protest as I drop a gear and slam my foot to the floor. Speed pins us to the seats. The strip blurs into streaks of light and shadow.
“Save it,” I groan. “You can bite my ears off later, okay?”
I’d like there to be a later. I’d like to think Lark won’t bail the moment this ends. But something tells me that’ll be the first thing she does. It would be for me.
“As if I’d only bite them off, you fucker.”
And I’ll deserve whatever she does to me.
Hell, I could take a knife slash or two.
Make it a scar. Call it even.
“Hold on,” I warn, wrenching the wheel toward the east gap. The Camaro tears through the fencing in a spray of sparks, metal clawing down the passenger side. We hit the back lot hard. There's uneven concrete and trash bins are scattering in our wake.
But the chase car follows.
They’re better drivers than I’d like, closing the distance even on this broken terrain. This is their turf; they know every rut and turn. Lark’s cursing under her breath, one hand braced on the dash, the other fumbling for the knife at her belt.
“Emotional support?” I ask. “They probably have guns.”
Her jaw tightens. “Fuck that. If it comes to it, I’m not going down without a fight.”
We tear through a side street, tires screaming against the turns. Ahead, the road narrows between stacked shipping containers—perfect ambush territory. My instincts scream no, but the only other option is a dead end.
We take it.
Halfway through, a second set of headlights cuts us off. The Camaro skids sideways as I stomp the brakes, the smell of burning rubber flooding the cabin.
And then… we’re boxed in.
Just like that.
Rey’s boys pile out. There’s four of them, all having weapons in hand. The bald guy steps forward, grinning like a man who’s just struck gold.
“Fisher’s pretty boy,” he says, voice dripping satisfaction. “Been a while. Bold of you to show at our race tonight, huh?”
“Run,” I mutter to Lark, popping my door.
“What?”
“RUN!”
I slam my door into the nearest thug, catching him in the knee. Shots crack immediately, ricocheting off the containers. Lark bolts toward the gap between the cars, knife flashing in the dark.
I follow—until the leader’s arm snaps out, his pistol slamming into her ribs. She stumbles, gasps, and—
Gods.
Blood blooms dark across her jacket.
No. No. No.
“Lark!”
She turns toward me, eyes wide, mouth parting like she wants to say something. But nothing comes. She crumples to the asphalt.
Everything in me goes still.
No roaring engines, no shouting thugs, no pounding heart. There’s just that sharp, ugly silence right before something breaks.
My gaze lifts from her body to the man who hit her.
Rey’s bald guy. Smiling, like he’s proud.
That smile is the last thing he’ll ever do.
I don’t remember moving, and then I’m on him before his finger can twitch. The gun jerks sideways as I ram my forearm into his throat, driving him back into the shipping container hard enough to rattle steel. My other hand crushes his wrist until the pistol clatters free.
He swings wild. I’m already inside his reach. My forehead slams into his nose. His cartilage crunches, hot spray across my cheek. He gasps; I wrench his head sideways and snap it against the corrugated wall with a wet, wooden crack.
Die. Die. Die.
The second guy is on me before the first hits the floor. He’s bigger, faster, but all I see is red. Lark’s blood soaking her jacket, the smell of cheap cigarettes, night as black as her Camaro. Bruises bloom on my knuckles.
Pain. A lot of pain.
The man’s knife flashes in shadow; I catch his wrist mid-swing, twist until tendons pop. The blade drops. I drive my knee into his gut once, twice, feel the air leave him, then jam the knife into the hollow under his jaw until the hilt kisses skin.
He collapses heavy and useless. I shove him aside as the third man lifts a gun.
I don’t think. I grab the body at my feet, use it as a shield, and hear dull thunk-thunk as rounds bury into flesh that isn’t mine.
Before the shooter can correct, I roll the corpse off and dive, slamming into his legs.
He goes down screaming. The pistol skids away.
I’m on his chest before he can breathe, hands around his throat, thumbs pressing deep until the pulse slows… and stops.
The last one bolts.
Smart. Not smart enough.
I snatch the dropped pistol, aim past the shaking in my arm, and put a round in his back. He sprawls forward, twitches once, then stills.
Silence again. Real silence this time.
I stand, chest heaving; the reek of blood and gunpowder hangs in the cold air. Four bodies. No witnesses. My girl is dying on me.
“Lark.”
I’m at her side in a heartbeat, knees tearing at the asphalt. She’s still breathing, and her eyes flutter when I press my hand over the wound.
“You’re okay,” I say, because what else is there? My hands are slick and warm with her blood and I can’t stop pressing down.
Her mouth moves; the words are thin.
“Don’t talk,” I tell her. “Save it. I’ll get you out.”
This is my fault.
All of it.
Her lashes drop like she doesn’t believe me, but I scoop her up anyway.
The Camaro waits at the mouth of the alley, engine still hot, doors ajar.
I lift her into the passenger seat as gently as I can and slide behind the wheel.
My hands shake, but when I turn the key the engine roars and drowns everything else out.
I tear out of the alley with blood on my hands, bodies cooling in the dark, knowing I just killed four men for her.
And I don’t care.
Kill or be killed. I’d kill twice over if it meant Lark could live.
She doesn’t. The thing I will later brand my personal curse takes her hostage and never lets her go.
I get exactly what I deserve.
Pain. A lot of it.