Chapter 47 Bellamy
BELLAMY
“God, I have to pee,” Lola groans.
I squint against the glare, scanning the asphalt ribbon that cuts through the desert. Nothing but heat waves and open road in both directions. We’ve been parked on the shoulder for nearly twenty minutes.
“I told you not to get the forty-ounce.” We stopped at about the halfway mark to hit the bathroom and caffeinate.
“Yeah, well. I did.”
I glance at my watch. “You better hop out and do your business now. Any minute now, we’re gonna hear from Cruz and Beck. And then we’re not stopping for hours.”
“Fine, but just for the record, this is not my preferred place to pee.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Better than peeing your pants, though.”
“True. We’d be testing the limits of a bleach bomb. Good for science and all that,” she says, pushing open her door.
“Just hurry up.”
She flips me off over the top of the door, then slams it shut.
The sun hangs like a white-hot coin in a cloudless sky, already baking the cracked earth.
Heat ripples distort the horizon, making the distant mountains waver like a mirage.
My shirt sticks to my back, and I change the angle of the vent again.
I twist the earpiece, listening for updates.
Beck’s voice comes through. “The eagle has landed.”
“Three, one, two: you’re up,” Cruz says.
My heart kicks inside against my ribs just as Lola slides back into the passenger seat.
“Ready, sis?” Lola flashes me a grin as she sprays hand sanitizer on her hands.
I nod, even though she’s already looking out the window, watching for movement. “It’s almost time.”
We wait. My leg bounces against the floor mat. I check my watch twice in thirty seconds. My fingers drum the steering wheel, then adjust the rear-view mirror, then check the side mirror, then drum the wheel again.
I'm breathless with anticipation and nerves, my fingers twitching to do something—anything. Sitting here, idle, might be the worst role for me on a job. Every cell in my body screams to be in there, in the action.
I got outvoted, and part of me wanted to punch every single one of them, but I’m trying this fun thing called diplomacy with the Calloways. Well, kind of.
Still, I can't shake the feeling that if something goes wrong and I'm stuck out here, I'll never forgive myself. Or them.
My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. Next time, I'm not sitting out here like some goddamn chauffeur while everyone else gets to have all the fun.
My fingernails tap-tap-tap against plastic. I check my watch for the eighteenth time. Ten minutes, tops. Then we should see Gage and the truck.
The earpiece finally crackles. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“We’re a go,” Gage's voice comes through, steady as always. “Guest list acquired. Ready for the nerd to do his thing.”
Cruz whoops in my ear, loud enough to make me wince.
“Six and seven, get ready,” Bishop orders.
Beside me, Lola flashes that wild smile of hers. “See you in hell,” she chirps, already reaching for her seatbelt.
I roll my eyes but can't fight my own grin. Only Lola would name an ambush point after the underworld. The ridiculous codename somehow makes this whole high-stakes operation feel like kids playing pretend—right up until the moment it doesn't.
Static crackles, then Bishop’s voice, all sharp edges and impatience. “Maintain distance. Don’t improvise.”
Lola mouths along, lips curled in a smirk. I catch her eye and roll mine dramatically. She grins wider, shaking her head.
The armored truck materializes in my rearview like a shark, chrome grille catching sunlight. My hands freeze on the wheel. Through the windshield, Gage's profile—jaw set, eyes hidden behind aviators.
Two nondescript escort cars trail him like pilot fish behind a shark. My breath catches in my throat until the convoy passes. My lungs finally release, and something between a laugh and a gasp escapes.
“Okay,” I whisper, my fingers leaving sweat prints on the wheel. “Okay.”
I press the pedal, feeling the engine's vibration climb through the floorboards.
The speedometer needle twitches upward. I hang back where their dust cloud thins enough to see through, but close enough that the armored truck remains more than a heat-warped mirage on this endless strip of black cutting between nothing and nowhere.
“Visiting Hell,” Gage says.
Up ahead, the truck's right blinker flashes once, twice. The brake lights flare red.
“Showtime,” Lola says, pulling her mask over her face. They’re semi-transparent, warped masks of presidents.
The escort cars pull over behind the truck, engines idling.
My fingers fumble with the plastic edges of the Nixon mask, the inside already damp with my breath.
Hair catches, tugs. I shove it under my hood.
We roll to a stop as the first driver's boot hits gravel.
Bishop, Rafe, Cruz, and Beck pull in behind us.
The escort cars sit trapped between us like insects in amber.
The door handle burns my palm. My gun weighs exactly two-point-four pounds but feels lighter with adrenaline. It takes effort not to say anything, but we all agreed the less Lola and I talk, the better.
It’s easier to identify a group of men and women versus just men.
“On your knees,” Bishop orders, gun pointed at the passenger of one car.
“Hands up,” Cruz snaps, voice low.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Rafe drawls to one of the drivers.
Lola and I advance as one, guns raised and trained on two of the men.
One guard's hand twitches toward his holster—and I’m moving before I give it a second thought. My elbow connects with his nose, cartilage crunching under impact. The guard folds at the middle like a paper doll, slumping over into the dirt. I shove him over with my toe and jerk my chin toward Rafe.
He picks up on what I’m saying immediately and retrieves the guard’s gun with his gloved hand.
Rafe plucks a Glock from a guard's holster, checks the safety, and flings it in a high arc. It lands with a dull thud thirty feet away, kicking up a puff of dust. Bishop does the same with another weapon, this one spinning like a deadly frisbee before disappearing into scrub brush.
I keep my gun trained on the tallest guard while Lola's aim never wavers from the one with murder in his gaze.
Beck's boots crunch gravel as he climbs into the truck cab. Behind me, Cruz's bleach bombs make wet, sloshing explosions as he sets them off in the cars we drove here.
The plastic zip tie snicks as it tightens around wrists—that same plastic-ratchet sound from when Mom would have a random sober day and start bundling garden clippings.
The guard's skin pinches white against black plastic, his throat working up-down-up. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Shut up,” Bishop says.
He doesn’t listen. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. It’s not our boss you have to worry about. It’s his.” He nods toward Murder-Eyes on his right.
Rafe squats down, lifting Murder-Eyes’ chin with the end of his gun. “I guess we should kill you then, hm?”
Murder-Eyes clenches his jaw tight, rage blooming underneath his skin and turning his cheeks pink. “You’ll be begging me for death before my boss is through with you.”
Rafe chuckles. “Maybe. But not before you do.”
“Enough,” Bishop grunts.
The silence tastes like copper.
Fabric scratches against skin as I yank the hood over the guard's head. His grunt of protest cuts off when Rafe shoves him face-first into the trunk of his own sedan. The contents of his pockets disappear into Bishop's burn bag.
Rafe's fingertips brush the back of my hand as he passes, the touch so light I almost miss it beneath the leather of his gloves.
Three feet away, Gage's eyes lock with mine across the dust cloud hanging between vehicles.
His chin dips a quarter inch—gone in the heartbeat before he swings into the truck's cab.
The trunk slams with a hollow thud under Bishop's palm.
His shoulders rise and fall, fingers splaying against the sun-hot metal as he exhales through his nose, jaw muscles flexing once before he straightens.
It's beautiful, our execution—like watching a constellation form in real time. A thrill of adrenaline sparks through my chest, electric and sharp as lightning.
Cruz's index finger catches mine, a quick hook-and-pull that barely registers as touch. His chin jerks toward the truck's rear, eyes already fixed on our escape route. My boots shift in the dirt, muscles tensing before my brain fully processes the signal.
Time to go.
My eyes dart left, then right, scanning the dust cloud for a glimpse of my siblings. Nothing.
My pulse hammers against my throat, each beat a countdown.
Then—movement behind tinted glass. Lola's Nixon mask tilts toward me from the back seat of the first escort car, her gloved fingers tapping twice against the window.
In the second car, the passenger door hangs open, Beck's boot visible as he hunches over, fingers flying across his laptop.
I blow out a long breath and roll my shoulders back. I don’t have time for nerves anyway.
Lola's door slams shut as I slide across hot leather beside her, Rafe already gunning the engine before my seatbelt clicks.
Across the dust cloud, Cruz's silhouette disappears into the other vehicle, Beck's laptop glow illuminating their faces as Bishop peels away first, tires spitting dirt in our direction.
Fifty miles later, my boots crunch across broken asphalt at the rest stop. The eighteen-wheeler's cargo door groans on rusty hinges, revealing a cavernous darkness that swallows the guards one by one as we push them inside.
“Just yell. They’ll find you eventually.” Bishop slams the door closed, but not locking it.
My boots hit asphalt as I sprint toward the armored truck, Cruz's footsteps pounding behind me. He grabs the handle, yanks it open with a metallic groan, and we both dive inside.