Ryder takes over the shooting while Koby makes ready to leave. I maneuver Hailey out of the way just as Broadway jumps inside.
Before the door’s fully closed, Koby floors the gas, flying through the gaping hole where the window used to be. We’re swallowed by the dead night, crushing wilted rose bushes under our wheels until we skid onto the driveway and past the gate.
Hailey’s in my lap, straddling my hip, trembling and silent, her head whipping every which way to assess the situation.
“Let the fun begin,” Koby says, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Better put your seatbelts on.”
On cue, a black sedan pulls out behind us—Rhett’s getaway driver with Apollo in the passenger seat. Ten seconds later, two more cars join in—Noretto’s.
Good job we’re prepared for this eventuality. Dark trees blur outside the tinted window as we twist round the woodland path toward the main road at a hundred miles an hour.
Adjusting Hailey in my lap, I whip a seatbelt around us. It clicks in place just as uneven terrain judders the Range Rover. Every move I make is laced with a shadow of fear I can’t control. She’s here, I have her back, but we’re not out of the woods yet… neither literally nor figuratively.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask, frantically skimming her body.
She flinches away, staring at me with wide eyes. “You came.”
I cup her face with both hands and pull her to me, my lips dancing with hers quickly. “I’ll always come for you.” I stamp a kiss on her forehead, then inhale a shaky breath, filling my lungs with her. “You’re okay now. I promise.”
“Seven miles,” Broadway denotes, gripping Koby’s headrest. He leans toward the middle to see the road better. “Don’t get us busted. Ryder, get them on the phone.”
Ryder breaks the previous connections in our earpieces, setting up new ones with the guys waiting at a nearby gas station.
Hailey inches away when the car straightens out, and my eyes are drawn to the crimson staining her arm.
“It’s okay, Nash. It doesn’t hurt, just… burns,” she stammers, pointing to where the bullet hit.
Carter, baby. My name’s Carter.
“Hold on!” Koby booms, slamming the brakes and turning the wheel so fast his hands are just a blur.
My arms snap around Hailey, pinning her against my chest as the ground beneath the wheels shifts from dirt to asphalt. We buck onto the road, the car filling with the stench of burning rubber when Koby floors the gas pedal.
I glance out the back window at the sedans, their headlights following us through the darkness.
“Alright, get ready, boys,” Ryder says into his mouthpiece.
“Put them on speaker,” Broadway demands, his knuckles gouging into Koby’s seat.
I push Hailey away, searching her eyes. “You’re bleeding, pretty girl. I need to see how bad.” Gripping her sleeve under and over the stitching, I tear it off in one hard tug. Using the scrap of fabric, I dab the wound, cleaning the excess blood to get a better look. “It’s just a graze, baby. Not deep. You’ll be okay.”
“Fuck!” Koby yells, slamming the brakes again.
Hailey slams into my chest with a yelp, gripping my sides and pushing her face into the crook of my uninjured shoulder. The sedans whizz past, braking thirty meters later, the unexpected move giving us a few precious seconds.
“We’re taking a short cut,” Koby announces as my phone starts ringing in my back pocket.
Must be Rhett. I can easily picture the rage simmering in his eyes. There was a plan—take Hailey to Cleveland—but I changed it without telling him and now his head must be swimming with possibilities.
He’ll have to wait for a chat, because all I care about is getting Hailey out of here.
“Here, Boss.” Ryder passes over a first aid kit from the glove box. “Put pressure on the wound. You can clean and dress it later.”
I wouldn’t dare patch her up while Koby’s zigzagging on uneven terrain. It’d do more harm than good. Pressing a wad of gauze to the graze, my stomach somersaults back at a hiss from Hailey.
The car swings again, pushing her into me and she stays there, curled into my chest.
“You’re okay,” I whisper in her ear. “It’ll be over soon.”
I force my attention back to the road when we once again jump out onto asphalt, two sedans roaring behind us. The gas station where our calvary awaits erupts from the darkness. No wonder. Koby’s clocking one-forty miles an hour.
We fly past three identical Range Rovers waiting by the road, ready for a game of switcheroo. Nate, Rookie, and Jackson join the fray, turning the chase into a disordered ballet.
“Fuck yeah!” Rookie’s voice booms from the speakers. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”
“Eight years,” Nate confirms, his tone level as he goes on to spew instructions.
Neither Apollo’s driver nor Blaze’s two sedans seem fazed. All the cars stay on us. Not for long, though, because the next minute, in a sequence of rehearsed moves, we switch places with Rookie, then Nate, then Rookie, then Jackson, over and over, mimicking the classic shell game.
Koby veers left, right, brakes, then accelerates before sweeping us in and out of the vertical formation. All four Range Rovers are identical, down to the plates and blacked-out windows, so the cars chasing us have no clue which car is which.
At least that was my thinking, but less than a minute later, Koby’s towing the fuckers again.
Broadway glances over his shoulder, confusion etched between his brows. “How the fuck do they know?”
“Dents from the bullets,” Ryder explains. “We didn’t foresee them trying to make a sieve out of the car when we planned this.”
“I’ve got this,” Nate says, his resolve bleeding through the speakers.
A set of instructions follows. Koby obeys, flooring the gas to make room for Nate to slip into formation. He stays inches from our back bumper for a mile or two, increasing the distance between him and the car behind, then slams the brakes, coming to an abrupt and complete halt in the middle of the road.
The driver of the sedan following doesn’t have time to turn the wheel, let alone brake. He crashes into Nate’s Range Rover at full speed. Metal bends, windows shatter, the crash louder than a fucking explosion.
Almost simultaneously, as if anticipating Nate’s move, Jackson clips the rear end of Apollo’s getaway car, sending it into a spin. It slams into the pileup, amplifying the chaos.
Two down, one to go.
“Shit! You good, Nate?” Broadway asks, staring out the back window. “Nate?!”
“I’m good,” comes his strained reply, followed by a humorless chuckle. “You’re in for one hell of a whiplash claim though.”
“Don’t slow down,” Jackson orders.
Tension is a living, thick, suffocating thing weighing down on us all as Koby’s maneuvers become more daring, but the last sedan matches us move for move.
Rookie’s flying down the road beside us, his expression unfazed as always. He’s been Dante’s star driver since day one, and given his nonchalant skills, I get why.
“Nate had a point,” he says, stepping off the gas to fall back. “I’m bored of this shit.”
Immediately, the screech of tires fills the air. Both Jackson and Rookie wrench their Range Rovers sideways, blocking the sedan. It can’t brake fast enough, piledriving into Rookie’s back door.
“Score!” Broadway exclaims. “You alright there?”
“All good. I’ll see you soon. Don’t slow down.”
“Not a chance,” Koby mutters, pushing the car to its limits for twenty minutes, taking a series of turns before he risks slowing down to see if anyone’s still following.
After another ten minutes of constant looking over my shoulder, my muscles slowly unwind. “Looks like we’re clear.”
“You sound surprised,” Ryder muses, turning in his seat. “Should we drive around a bit longer?”
“No. Get us to Illinois.” I grab a pack of antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit, tearing it open with my teeth. “Come on, Hailey. I need to patch you up.”
Slowly, she pulls away, glancing at Broadway who’s hauling out medical supplies. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
She opens her mouth, but it shuts when I start gently cleaning the graze on her arm. The way she flinches with every touch… fuck, I want to go back and kill every last one of Blaze’s pawns, then put a bullet in the man himself.
Hailey sinks her teeth in her bottom lip, warding off the pain.
“Shh,” I whisper, brushing a gentle kiss over her forehead. “You’re okay, I’m almost done.”
She doesn’t say a word, just shuts her eyes, grinding her teeth. Broadway helps, handing over the bandages and skin-closing strips, then puts everything away when I’m done.
I pull Hailey close, cradling her head against my chest.
The adrenaline starts hissing out of her as Koby lulls the car to a more comfortable speed. Everything she went through shakes her petite frame. It’s like now the nightmare’s over, she can barely hold herself together. I know her. I know she’s fighting tears, fighting to calm down, and that sheer will not to break down fucking guts me.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” I whisper, wrapping her tightly in my arms. It’s not as if saying it enough times will erase whatever she’s been through, but my voice soothes her, so I don’t stop. “It’s over, I promise.” My fingers tangle in her hair, brushing it back while she nuzzles deeper into the crook of my neck.
The car tires hum against the asphalt; the engine’s rhythmic purr and my hands stroking her back drift Hailey off to sleep. It takes well over an hour before her trembles finally ease. Her breaths even out, but even in her sleep, she doesn’t stop clutching my waistcoat in tight fists.
No way I can reach my phone, hidden in the back pocket of my pants, without disturbing her, but Dante needs an update.
“Broadway,” I say, keeping my volume low so I don’t wake Hailey. “Give me your phone.”
◆◆◆
“We should stop here,” Ryder says, pointing out a gas station. “We’re running on fumes, Boss.”
Two hours have passed since we lost the sedans. There’s no one following us anymore, but even with no immediate threat, my grip on Hailey unconsciously tightens.
“Yeah, alright, pull over. Grab some food; I don’t know how well the safe house is stocked.”
“I’ll go,” Broadway offers. “You stay with her.”
His footsteps slap against the tarmac. Ryder follows while Koby fills up the tank, his assessing eyes scanning the open area checking if we’re being followed.
Taking a deep breath, I draw small circles with my fingers on Hailey’s back, hoping it’s enough to keep her sleeping. She should rest. We still have three hours before we arrive at the safe house Dante’s kindly offered us.
Minutes stretch on, and soon, Broadway returns with supplies. He shoves a bottle of water into my door pocket, then hands me a steaming coffee. The bitter smell fills the car as the other two get back in with their cups, letting the cool evening air inside. Immediately, goosebumps dot Hailey’s neck.
Leaving a bag of sandwiches on the seat, Broadway pulls a blanket from under his arm. He covers her up with the kind of care you’d need to dismantle a bomb, probably aware I’ll bite his fucking head off if he wakes her up.
“Thanks,” I say, adjusting my hold on her to free one hand and sip the coffee.
It agitates the bullet-hole in my shoulder, making me hiss loud enough to attract Ryder’s attention.
“We need to patch you up,” he says, staring at me in the rearview mirror. “It’d be nice if you didn’t bleed out.”
I grind my teeth, my head hitting the headrest. “Later. I’m fine. You can patch me up once we’re in the safe house.”
“Carter,” Koby insists, his voice a notch firmer than Ryder’s. “What if we’re being followed?” He glances over his shoulder at Hailey’s sleeping face. “You don’t have to let her go. Ryder can work while we drive. But if you pass out or get worse—”
“Fuck, fine.” I, very carefully, tuck Hailey against my healthy shoulder. “Stop nagging.”
I could easily last a few more hours without a dressing, but Koby’s right. The more blood I lose, the weaker I become. Risking an infection is out of the question.
If anything else goes sideways tonight I’ll need all the strength I can get to protect her.
