Page 107 of What We Burn

I’m out of the car at a run.

Gravel shifts under my shoes as I cut across the dark. Knox yanks the rear door open and folds himself into the back seat like violence taking human form. Webster jerks hard enough to hit the steering wheel with his wrist. The horn gives a pathetic half-blast.

Knox’s pistol kisses the base of his skull.

“Go,” he says.

Webster freezes.

I catch the opposite rear door, wrench it open, and slide in beside Knox, shoulder knocking leather, my own gun already in my hand. The interior smells like cologne, stale coffee, and the sharp, immediate stink of fear. Webster turns just enough for me to see one wide eye in the rearview mirror as he takes in the masks and the gun in my hand.

“This is a mistake,” he says. Breathless. “Take the car, take my wallet, whatever you want⁠—”

Knox presses the muzzle in harder. “Drive or die here.”

His hands clamp the wheel. Reflex. I watch the tendons jump in his wrists, the pulse battering at his throat. He’s not a fighter. You can tell in a second. No plan to attack, no instinct to resist. Just fear.

And still he hesitates.

A stupid little pause. Half a second of denial while his brain tries to rewrite what’s happening into something survivable.

I lift my gun and level it at the side of his face.

“You heard the man. Drive.”

The words cut clean through the paralysis.

His foot slips on the pedal the first time. Then the engine growls, the Volvo lurching forward. Gravel spits under the tires. In the side mirror, I catch Eli getting into the van with Milo so they can follow us.

“Straight,” I say.

Webster’s breathing is ragged now. Too fast. His hands are locked on the wheel so hard I can see the blanch of knuckles even in the dark. He drives below the speed limit for three seconds before Knox leans in.

“Faster.”

The needle climbs.

Milo’s voice crackles low in my ear. “Dashcam is dead. Cloud sync severed. Congratulations to everyone on participating in tonight’s deeply upsetting field trip.”

“You following?” I ask.

“We’re on your six and headed toward a lovely secluded bridge where our rope is already tied and waiting for us to push this fucker off.”

“See you there.”

Webster makes a sound in the back of his throat. A choked whimper.

I gesture with my gun. “Left at the sign.”

He flinches and drifts over the center line before correcting.

“Pay attention.”

“Please.” His voice shakes. “Please, I have kids.”

Knox says nothing. But he presses the muzzle of his gun harder into the back of Webster’s neck.

“You should have considered that before you put your hands on other people’s children.”