Page 57 of Veil of Blood

My heart flips. The voice cuts through the engine scream. I glance to the side. The rival driver lifts a pistol out of the window. A gun barrel gleams under the track lights.

Rocco hollers, “Duck!”

I drop my chin. Time fractures. A shot cracks through the windshield overhead. Spiderwebs bloom in the glass. Shrapnel sprays in my periphery. My chest tightens. I wrench the wheel left.

Rocco presses my shoulder. He fires from the passenger seat. A single shot across the driver’s head. The rival slumps. His car veers into the next lane, crashing into the barrier. Tires spin as the race fractures.

“Hold on!” I shout.

He grips the dashboard. “Not my first rodeo.”

I rev the engine and hit the nitrous switch. A kick of power shoves me forward. The Charger lunges ahead. Smoke poursfrom the rear tires as we break free of the pack. The crowd’s cheers fade behind me.

I strain forward, boots pounding the pedal. We surge toward the finish line as chaos erupts behind. Policemen flood toward the wreck. Racers skid off the track. The green flare’s afterglow flickers red in the spray of sparks.

I cross the line. The roar of the engine peaks. Tires burn rubber as I brake hard. The Charger screeches to a halt and spins into the shadow of a stacked shipping container. The engine idles down, tremors rolling through the chassis.

Silence crashes around me. Only the echo of spinning wheels and distant shouts remains. I kill the ignition. My chest heaves. My hands shake on the wheel. I glance at Rocco. His pistol is already leveled in the gap between containers.

“Safe?” I ask, voice raw.

He stays on the door, chest rising under his shirt. “Not close.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I let the echo fade. The crowd’s scattered. Ferrano’s muscle car is gone. But I know the next assault waits beyond the shipping containers.

Rocco climbs out and crouches beside the driver’s door. I slip off my helmet. My hair clings damp against my forehead. Every bruise on my body aches. I open the door and step out, boots scraping gravel.

He rests a hand on my back. “What now?” I whisper.

He scans the yard under floodlights. “We find cover. We plan.”

I nod. I grip the chain under my shirt, warm against my palm. “Then let’s move.”

We slip from behind the container into the maze of crates and empty trailers. Neon from a distant bar cuts stripes across the ground. The night hums with sirens and engines. Every shadow could conceal a threat.

We move fast, feet slipping on oil-streaked concrete. I follow Rocco’s lead. His steps are confident; mine carry the adrenaline of survival. Every corner holds the possibility of an attack. I press my back to his shoulder when we round a stack of containers. His hand rests on his pistol.

Up ahead, a chain-link fence marks the edge of the lot. I spot a gap in the boards. We slip through and emerge onto a side street. Streetlamps throw ladders of light across wet pavement. We pause in the hush, breath ragged.

Rocco lowers his pistol. “You did good out there.”

I press my hand to my chest, feeling every thump of my heart. “Speed is mine.”

He offers his arm. I hook it through mine. We head down the street away from the raceway. Every step takes us deeper into the night. Every block we cover shrinks Ferrano’s reach.

He stops under a flickering lamppost. “This isn’t over.”

I turn to him. My eyes try to read his. “No.” My voice is steady. “But we’re not running.”

He nods, shoulders squared. “We’re fighting.”

I lift my chin. “Together.”

He frames my face with both hands. “Together.”

We melt into the street as another race car screams past, engine roaring. Sparks trail from its tires, competing with our own trail of smoke and dust. We vanish into the city’s arteries, ready for the next chase.

We don’t make it far. My foot lifts from the gas only after we clear the container’s shadow. I kill the engine. The Charger’s growl dies in the humid night. Rocco is halfway out the door when two black SUVs peel in, headlights carving paths across stacked crates.

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