Chance doesn’t answer immediately, instead focuses on another series of turns, each taken too hard, too fast, often skidding too far around and overcorrecting before righting it. “Fucker can drive, I’ll give him that. Wouldn’t think that truck could move that well.”
I sigh. “Yeah, it’s his baby. He’s always working on it. The engine is souped up, and he’s always bragging about some fancy suspension system he’s got on it.”
“Well, hate to give that shit-stain any kind of credit for anything, but clearly whatever he’s done to it worked because this Benz we’re in is a souped-up monster and he’s having no trouble keeping up.”
“He’s damn good with cars.” I glance in the rearview mirror, and then at Chance. “Not sure outrunning him is working, Chance.”
He huffs. “No shit. I just don’t know how else to handle this fucker.”
I eye him. “Can’t you do some commando shit? Shoot out his tires or something?”
He laughs. “Few problems with that suggestion, mama. One, I don’t have a gun, and it’s hard to shoot out tires without a gun. Number two, shooting out tires isn’t really a commando thing, since we don’t really get into car chase shoot-outs, as a general rule. Number three, I’ve sworn a vow not to take another human life again, under any circumstances.” He moves his arm to show me the inside of his bicep—he drives with his knee for a moment, touching a particular tattoo somewhat hidden amid the others, a simple, stylized arrow broken in half, the halves at angles to each other. “Swore an oath and got a branded tattoo to memorialize it. Terms and conditions of my residence at the Broken Arrow compound.”
I frown at him. “So you’re a Special Forces commando who can’t kill?”
“Not can’t—won’t. Andformercommando. Once a Marine, always a Marine and all that, but I’m officially honorably discharged.” He grins at me. “And I swore an oath not tokill. Nothing in that oath says I can’t really hurt a motherfucker, if needed. And this Alvin punk is getting on my damn nerves.”
I glance behind us again, and note that Alvin is still back there, a car length or so behind us. “He’s great at getting on your nerves. It’s his biggest specialty.”
“No kidding.” He glances in the mirror again, and growls—a sound of indignant resignation. “Fine, fuck. Gotta play this the hard way, then.” He grips the wheel in both hands. “Hold on tight, mama, this is gonna get gnarly.” A pause, a snort. “Especially since I’ve got zero evasive driving training.”
I tighten the belt, grip the oh-shit handle with both hands, and brace my feet against the footwell. Chance slews the wheel over and jams down hard on the brakes—we twist into a fishtailing slide. I suppose it’s fortunate all around that it’s the middle of the night and we’re far from the always-busy downtown area by now. Alvin’s truck rockets past us, brake lights bright red, tires locked and screaming as he skids, fishtails, and then the tires spin and smoke as he peels around.
I see Chance’s gambit, then—he floors the gas pedal and we bolt forward. The front left corner of our vehicle smashes into the side of the hood, buckling the metal inward. Smoke plumes from the engine compartment of Alvin’s truck. Our front left quarter panel is crumpled, the headlight smashed, but otherwise our vehicle is fine. Chance shoves the shifter into reverse, guns it hard, spins the wheel, slams it into neutral as we haul around in a half circle, and then jerks it again into drive, flooring the gas once more.
“Oooh, man,” I crow, “if Alvin didn’t already hate you, he does now. You just smashed up his baby.”
“Not all I’m gonna smash up before this is over,” he mutters. Glancing at me briefly, he pulls us away from the still-smoking hulk of Alvin’s beloved truck. “Question for you, mama.”
“Hit me with it,” I say.
“How much weight this guy pull?”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, is he a real player? Can he mobilize people to look for us? Or is he a bit player with more swagger than sense?”
“Honestly,” I say, “as much as I love to hate him, he’s a pretty big player, from what I understand. He’s got a corner on the low-life junkie market. He knows the turf he can’t get near—he won’t fuck with the cartels or the gangs. I’ve heard him talking about this on any number of occasions.”
I brace again as he takes another hard turn, followed immediately by another into a subdivision, where he turns at random until he finds a kids’ play park—he squeals us to a stop in a corner, shuts the headlights off.
Chance tugs the seat belt away from his chest, wincing subtly. “So, my question is, if he’s determined to get revenge on me and get his money owed out of you, what kind of forces can he muster to find us?”
I lift a shoulder. “Unfortunately, I suspect if he’s determined enough, he can get a lot of bodies to do his bidding. Now, the caveat here is that the bodies he gets aren’t gonna be the cream of the crop—they’ll be people desperate enough to do anything he asks…either for another hit, or to get out of debt.”
“In a way, that’s worse. In the criminal world, like anything else, there are professionals and there are amateurs. Both are dangerous in different ways. In this, the people you’re saying your buddy Alvin can field are gonna be not just amateurs but desperate junkies, and those motherfuckers, as we both know from personal experience, are seriously dangerous.” He shrugs. “I’d honestly rather the pros were after us. Desperation is unpredictable.”
“So, what now?” I ask.
He lets out a slow breath. “Tryin’ to figure that out, mama. I don’t feel good going back to Sin. Obviously, they were watching us there, and I figure they’ll still be watching. As long as they’re following us, they’re not gonna fuck with the others.”
“But if they want me, and now you, why would they fuck with anyone else?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I dunno that they would, but you wanna take that chance?”
I sigh. “No, you’re right, I don’t.” I look at him. “But what do we do, then? Where do we go? You’re injured, and we can’t just…fight our way through all of Alvin’s minions. Especially since you’re sworn against killing. And knowing Alvin and the assholes he’s capable of deputizing, they’re not gonna stop just because you clock ’em a couple times. It very well could get seriously violent.”
He reaches out and taps the glass where it’s pocked by a bullet. “I’d say it already is.” He stares through the windshield. “They’ll find us here. They know we came into this sub, so it’s only a matter of time. So we gotta get back into motion. Put some miles between where we are and where they think we are. A motel, maybe. Somewhere with a back parking lot where we can stash the Benz so it can’t be seen from the road.”
