Chapter 8
Eight
Jagger
Checking behind me every minute, I keep my hands steady on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Mind running through contingencies.
“You okay?” I ask, breaking the silence.
She glances at me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
Her jaw sets as she shifts toward me. “About not liking working for free.”
If the truck is wired, that’s all normal chit-chat. The woman’s not just skilled at forgery—she’s adept at coded speech, too. I almost smile despite the tension. “You signed up for it.”
“I did.” She looks back out the window. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”
The miles roll past. We cross into Mississippi. The landscape doesn’t change much—still flat, still green, still humid even with the AC running. The first drops of rain hit the windshield. I turn on the wipers.
“We’re driving into a storm,” Adena says, watching the darkening sky ahead.
I flick a glance in the rearview. Something’s off.
A black SUV sits behind us, the same one that’s been there since we passed through a small town about fifteen miles back. Same vehicle. Same distance—like it’s tethered to us. My grip tightens on the wheel.
The rain intensifies. Sheets of water wash across the glass faster than the wipers can clear them. The sky turns dark as dusk, even though it’s barely past noon. The SUV accelerates, closing the gap. It pulls into the left lane, coming up fast.
“Two vehicles,” Adena says, checking the mirror. “Both sides. They’re moving.”
The first SUV pulls alongside us. Tinted windows. I can’t see inside. It swerves—hard.
Metal screams as it slams into our side. The impact jolts the entire truck. Adena’s thrown against the door, her seatbelt cutting into her shoulder.
I fight the wheel, muscles straining. “Hold on!”
The truck skids, tires losing grip on the wet pavement. Hydroplaning, sliding sideways toward the guardrail. I don’t brake. Don’t overcorrect. Just steer into the skid, feathering the gas until the tires catch.
Behind us, a white pickup accelerates hard, coming up fast.
The SUV hits us again, harder this time. The truck lurches left.
I yank the wheel right, taking us onto the shoulder. Gravel sprays like shrapnel. The truck bucks and shudders beneath us.
“Shoot out the tires!” I shout.
She’s already reaching for her weapon. The white pickup pulls up close—close enough that I can see the driver’s face through the rain-streaked mirror.
He leans out his window.
Adena twists in her seat and fires. Three shots—all direct hits.
The driver jerks back inside. The pickup rams us from behind. Once. Twice. The whole truck shudders.
I floor the accelerator. The engine screams. Seventy. Seventy-five.
I cut across both lanes without warning. The truck tilts dangerously as tires scream against the wet pavement. We’re sliding more than turning.
We hit the exit ramp and plunge down it at a speed that makes my stomach drop.
The pickup tries to follow.
Too fast. Too sharp.
It skids, overcorrects. The back end fishtails, clips the guardrail, then flips. Metal tears apart as it tumbles down the embankment, disappearing into the rain and darkness.
The SUV doesn’t even attempt the exit. It just flies past on the highway, swallowed by the storm.
I take another turn. Then another, putting distance between us and the interstate. Once clear, I ease off the gas, checking the mirrors.
"We need to get off this road," I say. "Find somewhere to hole up."
The adrenaline fades, leaving a hollow thrum in my chest. My hands are still tight on the wheel, knuckles white. Every shadow outside the windshield feels alive.
"Who were they?" Adena asks, voice low, tight.
"Rival crew. Has to be." My throat is dry, and I can’t stop glancing in the rearview.
"They knew about the shipment."
"Yeah." My jaw tightens.
"How?"
I exhale slowly, trying to push down the unease crawling up my spine. "Could be a leak. Could be they’ve been watching the routes. Territory disputes… competition for distribution. It’s been heating up for months."
Adena’s eyebrow arches. "And he still sent us out here? With no warning?"
I shrug. "He doesn’t advertise shipments. The fewer people who know, the safer it usually is."
Her brow knits. "Still. A warning would have been nice."
I grip the wheel tighter, feeling the pulse hammering in my wrists. I can’t answer her, not with Marquez listening in.
But the implications settle between us like a weight. If there's a leak in Marquez's operation, we're both targets. And if he finds out about the ambush from someone else before we tell him, we're the first people he'll suspect.