Page 72 of Prodigal Son

He gave Axelle the same treatment. “You alright?” His hands were careful, on her hand and her waist as he steadied her.

Her eyes went to the van, and that was more steadying than his kind touch. “Yeah. I wanna drive.”

“Oh, um–”

“Let her drive,” Albie said behind her, and she broke into a jog.

Every step, she felt stronger, more in control of her surroundings. It was a big, unwieldy box of a vehicle, but it was a Mercedes, and there was a decent engine hiding under the workmanlike exterior.

The driver’s seat was empty; the driver had moved to open the rear doors, ready to help bundle Clive inside now that Albie and the others had maneuvered him out of the window and into the side garden. Axelle trained her gaze on that empty seat, laser-focused, and let her surroundings melt away.

She was dimly aware of chaos around her. Thecrack-ping-zipof gunshots, of rounds landing in the dirt around her. The sharp report of returned shots from the Dogs. Shouts, some angry, some frantic. Tires squealing a distance away, a revving engine, coming closer.

Then she was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, another adjusting the rearview mirror, and it was like she’d been slammed back into her body. Into the moment, heart racing, skin prickling, all her senses coming back online with a hum that lit her up from the inside out.

She checked her passengers. Raven and Vivian sat in bucket seats just behind her. The others were bundling Clive into the big cargo area in back. She spotted Tommy, and Miles, and the original driver – Chef, Albie had said – and the two who’d come into the conference room, the makeshift medic and the big one with the muscles.

“Everybody here?” she asked.

Albie slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Yeah.Drive.”

She threw the van into gear, and did just that, peeling away from the curb with a squeal and a cloud of exhaust and smoked rubber.

She was in control now. Her nerves didn’t just evaporate – a slow melting away into the atmosphere. They vanished. Snap.

“Do we have a tail?”

Albie checked the side mirror. “Yeah. Another van.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

An intersection loomed ahead, its light red. She slowed a fraction, laid on the horn – and cut the wheel hard to the right.

Blare of horns, squeal of brakes. Cars slid and slipped around one another, like fish in a bustling stream. She heard the distinct crunch of someone being rear-ended. But her way was clear, and she straightened the wheel and stomped the gas.

“Jesus!” someone in the back cursed.

They were on a four lane. She checked her mirrors, merged, and took the next left, barely dodging through a gap in oncoming traffic.

“Christ, you’ll get us killed!” someone else shouted.

She raced down a narrow side street. An alley, really, pedestrians – dressed like restaurant employees – leaping out of the way. She kept going. Hard right at the next intersection, a stop sign. Fast. Too fast. Breaking all kinds of laws and speed limits.

Two more hard turns. She was in the zone now. Everyone in the back slammed up against the sides of the van, cursing her, but she didn’t care.

“You’ve gotta head east,” Albie said beside her. “Next left.”

She took it, and then the next three turns he dictated.

The way opened up into a crowded four-lane.

“Go,” Albie said.

Screams from the back. She thought she took off a few side mirrors as she squeezed between cars.

But she lost the tail.

A few more turns, and they were pulling into the back lot at Baskerville Hall.

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