Jason
The van bumps along the road that cuts through the woods surrounding Belmont. Cash drives, while Max sits shotgun, and Dexter and I sit in the bucket seats right behind them—the four of us are en route to our next assignment.
The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the trees. Stray branches scratch the sides of the van, and the road gets rougher as we drive deeper into the forest.
I examine my sidearm lying across my lap, reveling in the power I feel when it’s near.
I was nervous for my first few jobs, but now all I feel is a rush of adrenaline when we’re assigned a new mission.
I feel like a secret agent or some shit.
My legs tingle, and my gut has a flurry of butterflies in it.
We veer right as the road hugs a ravine, and the sound of a motorcycle catches my attention.
“Did Tobias send backup?” Max asks Cash.
Cash looks in his rearview mirror with knitted brows. “No. He would have said something.”
I look over my shoulder to see four motorcycles trailing us. I squint, trying to see if I recognize them. “I can’t tell—“
The bullet shatters the back windshield, hitting Dexter in the head. His blood splatters across my face, and I dive to the floor of the van.
“Fuck,” I scream. “Dexter’s hit.”
A second shot hits Cash in the arm, and the van jerks to the right before Max lunges across the console to grab the steering wheel.
“Jason! Shoot to kill!” Max yells, while driving the car from the passenger’s seat as Cash wails in agony.
I crawl between the bucket seats and climb onto the rear bench, bracing one knee against the seat as I aim through the shattered back window, but another round of shots blows through the van, piercing the seats. I fall to the floor again, and the car weaves to the left.
Max is hit in the neck. He presses his hand to the wound, but blood spurts between his fingers. His eyes bulge, and he gasps for air, and, somehow, Cash is still managing to drive with his good arm.
“Shoot those fuckers, Jason!” Cash demands through clenched teeth.
I don’t even try to aim this time—I let it rip, aiming my sidearm out the back and blasting the motorcycles trailing us.
I hit one; the driver falls off, and the bike careens off the road and down the ravine. The remaining three fire at the van. Bullets whiz past me, shattering the front windshield as well, just before a bullet hits me in the arm.
“Fuck!”
Cash is slumped over the wheel, and the van veers closer to the trees. I crawl to the front, hoping to God I can steer this thing away from the ravine.
I scream into my radio, “Mayday! Shots fired on Hilton Ro—”
The road curves left, but I don’t have the wherewithal to make the turn, and we plummet down the hill and smash into a tree, sending my body soaring through the shattered windshield and landing against the boulders that border the lake.
And that’s the last thing I remember.