Page 122 of Scarlet Angel

I wait until she does as I say, then clamber in and crank the engine.

I’ve never wished for a remote to start a vehicle more than this moment. All my daily vehicles start remotely. Typical of electrics. But this gem is of the archaic combustion variety.

The car cranks. I wait a beat.

Press on the accelerator. The engine guns, but with my foot on the brake, the wheels spin.

The passenger door opens.

“Are you kidding me?” she shouts. “You thought it would explode, so you had me sit outside?”

“You can get in now.”

“What in the ever-loving hell? You’re keen to have me witness your death?”

Her door slams shut, and I check the rearview, then click the headlights on.

The road up ahead is quiet.

I roll down the window with a crank.

“Don’t do that,” she says.

“Do what? Plan a getaway in a vintage vehicle because we’re on the same page. I’m bloody well regretting this bit of the plan.”

“Assume your life is worth more than mine.”

What is she going on about?

“Get my backpack,” I say, focusing on matters of import. “Pull out the mobile. The flip phone.”

She bends over the seat, arse in the air, and seconds later, she’s got it.

“Buckle up,” I tell her, clocking the rear.

It’s completely dark behind us.

Up ahead, the dirt road meets a paved one. That’s where we turn.

The headlights cast an eerie glow over the narrow road, with scraggly limbs haunting the space like skeletons cast about on Hallow’s Eve.

I repeat a number to Scarlet.

“Should I message them?”

“Call,” I tell her. “That phone doesn’t message.”

“You value artifacts more than I realized.”

“Cute,” I snap.

“It’s ringing. What do I say?”

“Give it here.”

I hold the mobile to my ear.

Up ahead, red and blue lights blitz the night sky, and a chorus of distant sirens override the crickets.

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