Page 82 of Violent Skies

“Something isn’t right.” Cress’s voice is strained as her eyes lock on to the GPS. It flickers once, like static, and then again, before blinking out completely. Each time the programmed route looks the same, the road is highlighted clearly, but she’s right. The second car follows at a routine distance, never trying to pass, and for the most part the car ahead is holding a steady pace that causes a knot to form in my stomach.

“It’s a trap,” I swear under my breath.

“Get us out of here,” I say to him, and he huffs.

“There’s nowhere to go,” Riggs responds calmly as the GPS blinks again. Somehow the road we’re on is steep, narrow and the only exit to it, is at the bottom. “They’re leading us somewhere…”

“And then what?” I try not to sound panicked, but the fear is loud and its claws are razor-sharp as I roll my hand over the gun in my lap.

“They kill us,” Riggs answers honestly because he’s just as scared as I am but he refuses to show it. “Keep that close. And when we stop,” he says, his eyes flickering to mine for a brief second, “you stay in this car. The second I get out, you get in the driver’s seat and you rip this fucking thing back down that hill and meet Bird. Do you understand me?”

“Riggs.”

“I mean it,” he warns. “Stay inside. You’ll be safe in here. They replaced the windows on it, tinted, smash proof.” He explains, whipping the car around the last corner until where the GPS says the finish line is. A plan for every outcome.

“Why don’t you just stay in here with me?” The words rush out.

“Because this needs to end, and it won’t if I do. Not until they either get you or me. And I won’t give you up that easily this time.” His words aren’t harsh, or cold. It’s the truth, and it’s mean. My lip quivers because I know no matter how much I argue with him that it wasn’t like that, that he never just gave me up, he’s set and ready for this. For us. “Cress, promise me you’ll stay in the car?”

“I promise.” I hate it. Every fucking syllable feels like a betrayal.

His eyes cast up to the rearview, illuminated by the headlights of the car tailing us as the one ahead skids to a stop, blocking the roadway. The driver climbs from his seat,a helmet concealing his features as he plants his feet in the headlights of the R35.

The sound of him shifting into park makes me flinch. Riggs leans over, unlatching the glove box for the gun tucked inside as he unclips himself with the other hand. He looks at me once before his hand finds the door handle and the driver’s door opens. All I can focus on is the hard clench to his jaw, the shine of fear in his eyes, and trying not to cry mine out.

The door closes and I exhale, terrified. I undo my harness with shaky fingertips, my eyes never leaving Riggs as he walks out toward the other driver. The night practically swallows them both whole. I slip one arm out at a time, then swing one leg over the center, followed by the other, my movements smooth compared to how out of control I feel in this situation.

Stay in the car.

I tell myself as I harness myself back in to secure the train of thought.

Stay in the car.

I tell myself as the driver steps forward into Riggs’s space, clearly locked in a conversation.

Stay in the fucking car.

My eyes flicker up to the mirror, keeping an eye on the car behind us, watching and waiting for the second driver to get out but he hasn’t yet. The argument in front of me becomes heated, Riggs squares his shoulders, the muscles in his back rolling tight as he broadens his already wide chest and steps forward, closing what small gap there was between them.

“Please be careful,” I whisper to him, knowing he can’t hear me but hoping he listens. I wrap my hand around the stick, checking the mirror again as the second driver finally gets out. Almost like his impatience has gotten the better of him. I breathe slowly, controlling what I can and have my foot hovering over the gas pedal in wait. I’m not going to spook them, not if there’s a chance that Riggs gets out—

I watch his body lurch backward, the gun shot cracking through the air from behind me as the second man approaches on the left side of the car. My breathing catches in my throat as Riggs stumbles, his body wavering alongside my capabilities of staying in the car.

The car.

I shift the gear quickly, not thinking about anything other than getting him out of this place as I swerve the front tires wide and hit the gas. Their reaction time is slow but Riggs is alert as ever as he throws himself out of the way. The bumper of Rafe’s pristine R35 lifts the first driver by the hips and pins him to the side of his car with a disgusting scream and the sound of crunching metal.

More gun shots ring out but I keep driving the car forward until the front wheels of the unknown assailants are rocking over the edge of the hill, threatening a quick descent to the bottom of the valley below.

Just as quickly as I lurch forward, I yank the car away from the man and the carnage, grinding the tires through the gravel and whipping it around on the narrow road. The tail end swings out, and I hold my breath hoping I also don’t end up at the bottom but the back wheels have purchase and I skid across the road and slam on the brakes.

“Stay in the car,” I whisper, revving the engine as the second driver lifts his gun, aiming straight for my window. “Stay in the car,” I mock Riggs, only because I’m terrified as the shot rings out. The crack of bullets on glass rings through the air, but only a small splinter cracks across the windshield. I laugh out loud in relief, shocked I’m still alive.

My eyes dart to Riggs, his body limp, off to the side, propped up by a rock but out of the way. I clench my jaw, watching the driver realize that he can’t get to me so he changes his direction toward Riggs.

I haul the stick into gear and press the pedal down as far as it can go. The car catches easily, the acceleration on it almost instant. The driver has no time to get out of the way. He’s too close to the rocky facing of the hill and I don’t have time to swerve. I catch his body, the thud as he rolls over the top of the R35 loud and disarming as I crank on the wheel. The right side is torn apart by the slate as I try to slow down. When I finally come to a thunderous stop, I shift into reverse but the tires just spin endlessly, the smell of burning rubber fills the air through the vents.

I throw it in gear, urging it forward, but I’m stuck.