Then the car jerks forward.
I don’t think.
I leap.
My hands slam down on the hood, palms flat against cold metal as the sedan screeches away. The world tilts. Tires scream beneath me. I hold on tight. My fingers digging for any sort of grip for two seconds before physics wins.
The car swerves hard.
I’m airborne.
Flying backward through nothing.
Then the asphalt rushes up to meet me.
Shoulder first. Then hip. Then spine.
The impact steals my breath, grinds skin off bone. Pain lights me up from the inside. It’s white-hot and all-consuming.
“Fuck!” I spit blood onto the pavement, roll onto my side.
Everything hurts. Everything.
The road’s slick with oil and gravel that’s embedded itself in my palms, my arms, my back.
But I can still see the taillights disappearing down the street.
“Koa!” Oxy’s beside me, cursing as he hauls me up by the arm. “Come on! Get in!”
I stumble to my feet, half-dragging myself toward my Charger. My legs don’t want to cooperate. My vision swims.
But I move.
Oxy slams the car door and floors it before I’ve even closed mine. The engine roars, protesting the sudden acceleration, but it obeys.
We chase.
Headlights carve through the dark, cutting a path after those faint red taillights ahead. Every bump sends fire through my ribs. Every breath feels like swallowing glass.
I can still hear her voice in my head.
Koa!
Begging. Terrified. Gone.
Oxy glances at me. “You realize we’re running out of gas chasing these guys to their den, right?”
I look at the gauge. The needle’s already in the red. We’ve got maybe ten miles. Maybe less.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I grit out, clutching my ribs. “Go.”
He goes.
The engine groans. But we keep pace.
For a while.
Then the taillights ahead pull farther away. Faster. They’re not slowing down, and we’re running on fumes.
