My long fingers curl around the leather steering wheel, and I push down harder on the accelerator, but I’m already flooring it. Despite my dance with death, my heartbeat remains calm and steady, like a glassy lake reflecting the trees outside.
Each pounding heartbeat thuds like a kick drum. What I feel now is beyond anger or rage. I’m emotionless—an empty void of unleashed darkness with one goal in mind.
Complete destruction. Aim and kill.
One quick glance at the speedometer has a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. If I make the slightest mistake now, take my mind off the target for even one second, I’ll be snuffed off this planet in a heartbeat.
My phone rings in the passenger seat, the phone vibrating across the leather.
Sinclair.
Always the voice of reason in my muddled mind.
I press answer on the steering wheel.
“This is fucking madness,” he says, his voice filling the car when the call connects. “You’ll kill yourself.”
I stare at the mirage ahead, glimmering in the distance. “The only one dying is the Bishop.”
“I can’t let you do this, Darian. Not like this. I know you’re angry, but we need a plan before we attack.”
My gaze flicks to the climbing speedometer again, and my breaths grow shallower until I barely feel its whisper on my lips. Sinclair wants me to turn back and formulate a plan of attack, but I don’t have precious seconds to spare. I’m bringing my wife home, no matter what it takes or what nightmare greets me.
“Darian!” Sinclair’s sharp voice snaps me back from my thoughts, and a frown creases my brow.
When I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror, he’s hot on my tail. “Go home, Sinclair.”
His deep, resigned sigh fills my car and then he says, “You forgot one very important thing.”
The horizon stares back at me, a speck in the distance. “What’s that?”
“I have your Bugatti, and it’s a fuckton faster than your car.”
I can’t help but laugh when he pulls out and speeds past me, maneuvering the car with an ease most professional racers would covet. He whizzes by like a bullet, flying down the road before pulling the handbrake and spinning the car around like a suicidal madman until he faces me.
“Crazy motherfucker,” I chuckle as I slam on the brakes, the tires squealing loudly on the road.
When our cars finally come to a standstill, we stare at each other through the windshields, high on adrenaline and breathing like bulls, road dust swirling around us.
“Are you going to move your car?” I ask, resting against the headrest.
“Are you going to use some common fucking sense?” he counters, his voice filling the car through the speakers.
I chuckle. “Nope.”
“Then no, I think I’ll stay parked right here.”
Smacking the glovebox, I retrieve my gun, ensuring he can hear it click before I exit the vehicle, walking toward him with the weapon drawn. “Move your fucking car, Sinclair.”
Instead of responding, he grins behind the steering wheel and shakes his head. Then he opens the door, slams it shut, and walks toward me. Women of all ages have always loved this side of Sinclair, his masculine cockiness and lack of fear. He’s an arrogant fucker, and if I didn’t respect him so much, I would’ve shot him by now.
“What good do you think you’ll be to your woman if you’re dead?”
“Now is not the time for chit-chat. Move out of my way.”
“You know, I always admired you for being a strategist, but all it took was one warm, tight pussy for you to become so fucking blinded, you’ll get both of you killed.” Before the words have left his mouth, he wrestles the gun from my hand and swipes my feet from underneath me.
Surprised, I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs.
