Chapter 21 #2
Which was why I kept a Glock at home. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the car.
I wasn't licensed to carry in this state, and criminals got busted during traffic stops all the time.
Half the guys I knew who were locked up had been pulled over first—busted tail light, cracked windshield, driving five over, driving five under, rolling through a yellow.
Cops could stop you for anything, and I wasn't about to hand them probable cause with an illegal firearm.
I grabbed another fry, chewing mechanically while I strategized. The blue sedan held steady, five cars back now. Single driver from what I could tell.
Option one: Pull into a strip mall, finish my meal, force them to pass or reveal themselves. Problem—I'd still have no idea who they were or what they wanted.
Option two: Speed up, make them choose between pursuit or abandonment. Same problem as option one. No real intel gained.
Option three: Find an alley, gun it, make a hard turn and brake. When they came around the corner, I'd be ready with my phone camera. Get a face, maybe. Definitely get a plate, though it might be stolen.
If this was law enforcement, I needed to know. The only reason they'd tail me was Quentin—I was too new, too clean on paper, too unknown to be on anyone's radar on my own.
But if this was the Morettis? Or another family's hitter?
That would mean Quentin was being framed. And I'd just painted a target on my own back.
I made my decision and started scanning for the right alley.
Thirty seconds later, I spotted my opening—a narrow alley between two warehouses.
I yanked the wheel hard and gunned it, gravel spraying as I shot into the cut-through.
The car fishtailed as I accelerated, then I slammed the brakes and spun into position at the mouth of the alley.
Popping the glove box open, I had my phone up and ready like a paparazzo with a debt collector on his tail.
The blue sedan came around the corner fast.
I raised my phone to snap the shot.
A bullet punched through my windshield, missing my head by inches.
Assassin. Not cops.
I dropped the phone—heard it skitter under the seat—and stomped the gas pedal.
Tires shrieked, spinning uselessly for half a second before catching pavement.
The car rocketed forward. I cranked the wheel right, ducking low as I flew past a garage, paint scraping off my passenger side with a metallic shriek.
The rear window exploded.
Glass rained over the back seat. My Diet Coke tipped, flooding the cup holder and soaking straight into my fries.
"Dammit!"
I kept my head down and my foot on the gas, weaving through side streets, putting distance between me and whoever wanted me dead.
Lana Del Rey sang something about being born to die. I turned off the stereo so I could listen for gunfire. No additional shots were fired as I entered traffic. The would-be killer was cautious, but he was still following me.
I sped up.
At Mountain and Green Boulevard, I turned left at the last second, hoping to throw my tail.
No such luck.
Green Boulevard turned into Highway 24, and suddenly, I was out of the city, open road ahead. My pursuer stayed locked on my tail.
My speedometer climbed past 115.
That's when the nerves hit. During the shooting, adrenaline had kept me razor-focused. But now, cruising on smooth highway with nothing but empty asphalt ahead, my body decided we were safe enough to panic. My hands started shaking on the wheel.
Except we weren't safe. The assassin was still behind me, and I didn't have a weapon.
I needed that picture. The burner phone in the glove box had a garbage camera—useless. But my cell had fallen under the seat, probably swimming in spilled Diet Coke by now. I stretched my arm down, fingers searching blindly.
Come on, come on...
My fingertips brushed something small and hard. I pulled it up.
A diamond earring. The one I'd lost a week ago.
At least I wouldn't have to pawn the other one now. I dropped it in the center console, still reaching for the phone—
The impact slammed me forward.
He'd rammed me. At 120 miles per hour.
The earring flew. My wings launched into orbit. Everything went airborne—soda, dipping sauce, and the few surviving fries. It all crashed to the floor in a greasy, tragic mess.
My tires screamed as the car slid sideways. I caught a glimpse of the driver in my mirror—hoodie, dark glasses. Honestly, it could have been anyone old enough to drive.
The blue sedan kept pushing, trying to force me completely off the road. My wheels hit gravel, losing traction—
A third car came out of nowhere and slammed into the sedan.
All three of us careened off the highway, over the berm, and into a grassy meadow. My car bucked and jolted before lurching to a stop, straddled over a fallen log. Headlights cut through the twilight, illuminating tall grass and tree line.
The other two cars sat about fifty meters back.
Shots rang out.
Sharp crack—9mm. Heavy thud returning fire—.45, probably. Two shooters going at it.
I assessed my situation. No weapon. Car stuck on a log. Max Mara coat covered in Hell's Whisper Wings, dipping sauce and Diet Coke.
My fate now rested in the hands of whichever gunman had better aim.
I closed my eyes and muttered a prayer with mostly—kind of—complete earnestness. “Saint Michael, please don't let me die in this outfit.”