Wrathful (Hollow Beach #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

RAFE

“Only psychopaths can sit in a car for hours in complete silence,” Lola grumbles as she shifts in the passenger seat for the third time in two minutes.

“Is it silence if you narrate the whole time?” I drum my fingers along the steering wheel and stretch my neck from left to right and back again.

I love music as much as the next person, but between the radio, our open phone call, and Lola’s commentary, it was overstimulating as fuck. Something had to go.

She looks at me slowly, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted like she tasted something sour. “Weird. I didn’t think you were the funny brother.”

“I’m not.”

The armored truck rolls ahead of us on the near-empty desert highway, its reinforced panels catching flashes of late-afternoon sun as the road bends through low scrub and dust. Gage, who normally treats speed limits like suggestions, keeps the truck in a clean line down the asphalt.

I’d bet my cut it’s not the seven-hundred-thousand in casino chips making him drive like there’s a cop on his tail.

It’s Bellamy riding in back with our younger brother, Cruz.

And behind us, Bishop’s car holds position in the mirror, keeping the distance we planned. Close enough to close the gap if something goes sideways. Far enough back that we don’t look like we’re fleeing a crime.

Everything exactly where it should be.

“What are you then?” Lola stretches one leg out on the dash and flicks her hair out of her face like we’re just taking a casual drive through the desert instead of escorting stolen contraband across state lines.

“Busy.” My eyes sweep the road again.

Empty highway stretches ahead like a sun-bleached ribbon.

Heat shimmers off the pavement, distorting the horizon into liquid waves.

My eyes burn from staring at the same unchanging landscape for the past several hours while Lola’s voice rises and falls beside me in near-constant chatter.

It’s not that I mind the conversation, if Cruz were here, he’d be rivaling Bellamy’s sister.

But there’s something just out of my grasp. An itch that I can’t quite satisfy no matter how many times I scratch it.

Every job has a flavor. This one tasted like copper and ozone. And I haven’t decided yet if that’s a good tiding or a bad omen.

“Mm-hmm. I heard you were.”

I ignore her insinuation, like I’ve ignored every single one of her attempts to entrap me when it comes to the enigmatic blonde in the back of the armored truck.

“You know,” she drags out, her tone just shy of sing-song. “I was rooting for Gage, but I could be persuaded to switch sides.”

The corner of my mouth twitches almost against my will. I haven’t known her for long, but long enough to know she’s fishing. And it’ll likely cost me.

I give in just for the fuck of it. Curiosity and all that. “Oh yeah?”

“Sure,” she says with a nod, her face falling into something neutral. “For half of your cut from this job.”

I raise an eyebrow, keeping my face carefully neutral even as something like respect settles in my chest. “And if you were shotgun with Bishop? Would you offer him the same deal?”

She rolls her head across the headrest to look at me, a sly grin spreading along her face. “Nah, I’d go for his full take.”

“He’d kick you out of his car for suggesting it.” Fuck, I can picture the indignation on his face, and laughter hums inside of me. I don’t let it out though. Instead, I check the mirrors again, cataloging every detail. The last hour has set my teeth on edge in a way I don’t particularly enjoy.

“Maybe,” she concedes with a slow nod.

Something flashes in my peripheral vision—metal catching sunlight.

I jerk my head right, eyes narrowing on the intersection a quarter mile ahead.

A massive red Mack truck thunders down the perpendicular road.

At first glance, it’s just another freight hauler pushing through the desert highways. We’ve encountered a few today already.

“But maybe not. I guess we’ll nev—”

“Lola.” Her name snaps across the car like a whip.

“Jesus, Rafe. I’m just fuckin’ around,” she says, exasperation heavy in her voice.

I tap the cupholder where my burner should be. “Unmute me.”

“What’s wrong?” Lola shifts at my tone, her feet sliding off the dash and planting on the floor as she immediately looks around for my phone.

“Not sure yet,” I murmur. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, like some kind of benevolent spirit dragged its ghostly touch across my skin. Goosebumps ripple down my spine, and foreboding sits heavy on the back of my tongue.

There’s this thing that happens right before a job goes sideways. You start narrating the escape routes in your head. Like your body knows what’s coming before you even see it—the way your tongue finds a chipped tooth, or your brain starts replaying old injuries when the weather shifts.

“Shit, it slipped between the seats.” She jams her arm into the narrow gap, her face contorting as her shoulder strains against the console.

“Give me yours then.” Urgency wraps around the command, drawing the consonants sharp.

“Fuck.” She yanks her arm free, unbuckles her seatbelt, and twists in her seat with a grunt. “It’s right there.”

The Mack truck barrels toward the intersection, its massive grille gleaming like teeth, no flicker of brake lights, no dip of the cab that would signal deceleration.

My grip tightens around the steering wheel and cold understanding settles into my chest. “Fuck. Get up here.”

“I almost have it,” she grunts out between harsh breaths.

“Now, Lola!” I yell, my voice dropping an octave as my jaw locks.

I exhale once, hard, and my face goes slack, eyes narrowing to calculate distances and angles.

The world sharpens into geometric patterns—velocity, trajectory, impact points.

My pulse slows to a steady thrum despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

This is the precipice, the moment before the fall, and there’s no map for what comes after the next breath.

Lola twists back into her seat. “What the fuck—” The words die in her throat as her eyes lock on the approaching truck. Her face drains of color.

“Seat belt. Now.” I reach behind her seat for my gun, the cold metal of the grip settling against my palm as I bring it to rest on my thigh.

She clicks her belt into place with a metallic snap, white-knuckled fingers wrapping around the handle above her window. But it’s not our car she needs to worry about.

The Mack truck blows through the stop sign, its red paint suddenly vivid as fresh blood against the bleached desert.

Metal screams—a sound like the world being torn in half—as eighteen tons of steel slam into the armored truck’s side with enough force to rattle the fillings in my teeth.

The entire vehicle jerks violently sideways, tires leaving thick black streaks across the sun-baked asphalt as momentum finally wins the fight against physics.

For one impossible second, the armored truck balances on two wheels, the weight of it hanging in the air like gravity forgot how to work, sunlight glinting off the undercarriage in a blinding flash.

Then it rolls once, a slow-motion ballet of destruction.

The reinforced shell slams against the pavement with a thunderous boom that vibrates up through the soles of my boots.

Safety glass bursts outward in a glittering storm, diamond-like shards catching the desert sun before raining down on the highway.

“Bellamy,” Lola chokes out.

Bishop’s voice explodes in my earpiece, raw and guttural. “Rafe!” Then, lower, more urgent, “What the fuck is happening?”

I don’t answer because my fucking phone is muted. And even if it wasn’t, what the fuck is there to say?

Is this an accident? Or a motherfucking ambush?

The truck rolls again, this time in slow motion. Metal screams against concrete, each point of impact sending up orange sparks that die instantly in the desert air. The reinforced shell crumples at the corners like it’s made of aluminum foil instead of military-grade steel.

Dust erupts across the highway as the truck skids sideways, carving a trench through gravel and asphalt.

The sound is like a thousand nails on a chalkboard, rising to a shriek before the vehicle crashes onto its side with a bone-rattling finality that sends vibrations up through the steering wheel and into my palms.

It feels like the worst kind of nightmare—the kind where your limbs are made of lead and your voice has been stolen. I’m forced to bear witness, my body stuck behind the wheel, unable to do absolutely anything but watch as physics finishes its brutal equation.

The rear doors of the armored truck tear open with a metallic shriek.

Black plastic bins launch from the back, spinning across the highway.

They hit the asphalt with a crack that splits them diagonally, their lids flying off.

Red, blue, green, and black discs explode outward in a kaleidoscope burst.

Time slows. My pupils dilate, catching every detail like camera flashes. The dust hasn’t settled when a dark shape tumbles from the gaping rear doors.

Bellamy’s blonde hair catches the sun as she rolls. Her shoulder hits first, then her hip, her head snapping back on impact. She skids ten feet, limbs splayed like a broken doll, coming to rest among rainbow-colored chips.

The highway sounds fade as fear wraps its bony fist around my lungs.

“No.” Everything else fades as my gaze zeroes in on her. I’m too far away to see if her chest is moving. But I have to believe it is.

“Rafe!” Lola’s shrill warning cuts through the fog.

The world explodes back into real-time. The Mack truck swerves around the wreckage with practiced precision, tires kicking up dust clouds as it skids to a diagonal stop. The engine growls like a predator that’s cornered its prey.

My mouth turns to sandpaper. The truck’s windshield catches the sun, then clears enough to reveal a familiar silhouette that punches the air from my lungs.

The bastard’s probably riding the high of his life right now, pupils blown wide behind the wheel as eighteen tons of steel flipped an armored truck.

“Rafe.” Lola’s voice thins as she points.

The Mack’s doors fly open. Black-clad figures pour out like spilled ink. Their faces disappear behind ski masks, but the AR-15s in their hands glint in the sun as they jog toward the back of the open truck. Where Bellamy lies with casino chips around her still body like a halo.

“Talk to me, brother,” Bishop’s voice grates in my ear.

A ski mask swivels our direction. The barrel of an AR-15 follows. The first bullet spiderwebs my windshield six inches from my face. The second punches through the hood with a metallic ping.

Lola’s forehead nearly cracks against the dashboard as she drops down, her knuckles white against the seat edge.

“Jesus Christ,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “What the fuck.”

The brake pedal slams to the floor under my boot, and the steering wheel burns against my palms as I wrench it sideways. Our tires scream against asphalt, the car’s back end swinging wide as we skid to a stop by the front of the armored truck.

“Stay down,” I snap, already reaching for the second gun tucked under my seat. The metal is cold, familiar in my grip like an old friend.

More shots tear through the air, the sharp cracks echoing across the empty highway.

Lola pops back up anyway, eyes wild as she stares toward the truck. “Bellamy—”

“Stay the fuck down,” I snarl, shoving the door open. “I’m not getting you shot so your sister can kill me later.”

She flips me off immediately. “Like hell I’m staying in the car while you idiots get my sister killed.”

I don’t have time to argue with her. I gave her my warning, but she’s a fucking adult. I shove one gun in the back of my pants, gripping the other one in my right hand as I run toward the cab of the truck and my brother’s prone form.

Another gunshot cracks across the highway, and my heart threatens to stutter at the implication of what they’re firing at on the other side of this truck.

My vision narrows to pinpoints, my mother’s voice slithering around in the back of my skull. “Clean house, Rafe. Leave nothing breathing that threatens this family.”