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“You’re good.”
He double-checks, poking his head out tentatively, before hauling his body up, getting the whole of his torso out of the window. “You’re more flexible than I thought,” I yell, mirroring him on the other side. “Jesus Christ,” I breathe, struggling to catch my breath in the high-speed wind blowing in my face.
“You first,” I yell across the car to him as he aims, his jaw tight, his straight arm jerking too much to get a good shot.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
I hit the roof of the car with the handle of my gun. “Slow down,” I yell.
“What?”
“Slow the fuck down!” Stability wins over distance. Always. And Brad is a fucking master shot. A few more meters won’t faze him.
James takes his foot off the gas, and Brad’s wobbling arm settles just enough for him to get the shot. He squeezes the trigger, jerking when he fires, and the X5 swerves.
“Bullseye,” I whisper, watching as the vehicle hits a curb and flips, spinning in the air countless times, the wheels flying off, the screen shattering, before it lands on its roof. James hits the brakes, forcing Brad and me to cling on for dear life. We come to a stop, but the X5 continues gliding down the road on its roof, sparks flying everywhere.
I look at Brad across the car.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he admits. “Fuck.”
There will be no torturing for information now. I get back into the car, meeting Brad on the back seat, and watch as the X5 comes to a slow, creaking stop. “They’ve gotta be dead, right?” I take in the mangled car.
Just as it explodes.
Fuck! We all bring our arms over our head protectively, being blinded by the blaze roaring in the middle of the road, smoke billowing up into the air, pieces of metal flying far and wide. “I’d say so,” Brad says quietly.
“Shit,” I breathe.
“We’ve got company.” James says, and we look out the rear window seeing blue lights heading this way. “Put your belts on.”
I comply, naturally, as James screeches off.
“The good news is, we’re not in a car registered to us,” he says over his shoulder, yanking the steering wheel to the right, sending the car skidding up the road before he speeds off down a side street.
“What’s the bad news?” I ask.
“There is no bad news.”
“There’s always bad news when someone says the good news is?—”
“Anyone would think you want some bad news.” Brad chuckles, doing the window up.
“Call Otto,” James orders. “Tell him to meet us at the place Beau drove Nathan Butler’s car to when the cops were pursuing her.”
Brad’s the first with his mobile out, and he quickly relays James’s instructions.
“Tell him to bring the two dead Russians.”
“What?” Brad asks, his phone limp at his ear.
“And a tracker.”
“Did you get that?” Brad says to Otto, grabbing the headrest in front when James swerves. He hangs up and holds the headrest with both hands, looking back. “Two more.”
I laugh under my breath, very fucking close to breaking out in a nervous sweat. “Fuck, the sirens are making my head ring.” I dive forward and turn the stereo on. Then drop back. Listen. Smile. “Perfect.”
Bloc Party Flux starts blaring from the speakers, and I laugh as the car constantly flies from one side of the road to the other, the stench of burning rubber starting to irritate my nose. A cop car skids out of a side street and joins the convoy, and I shoot back in my seat, out of sight. “Company on the left,” I yell over the music, prompting James to very quickly and very efficiently swerve and smash into them, sending them up the curb into a streetlight.
