Bad Boy's Last Race (19 page)

As Brett talks, something else fills me, replacing the raw, spiky sensation of adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins. It feels a little bit like a second chance. Like the way my heart soars whenever I see Sophie smile.

It feels a little bit like hope. And I’m ready to risk it all.

I
test the brake
, and it screeches bloody murder under my foot. “What the fuck, Cyrus.” I pull my foot away and the brake pops back into place, ricocheting through the cavernous van. “Where the hell did you even find this piece of shit?”

Cyrus grimaces. “Cut me some fucking slack, man. It was the best I could do on short notice. And with Brett’s exacting specifications.” He gestures around the cab. “Tinted windows.” He jerks his thumb behind our row of seats. “Spacious cargo bay. And, hell, it
runs
, which is more than I can say for half the shit in the junkyard. I know it isn’t some fancy Firebird or GTO, but we’re not going for fancy here.”

“Yeah. I’m personally aiming for ‘keep our asses alive.’” And Sophie’s.
Fuck.
It’s all I can do not to bash my head against the steering wheel, I’m so fucking angry. “But if second and third gear fucking crap out on me mid-escape, then that cuts our odds a little bit, don’t you think?”

Cyrus grins good-naturedly. “You’re the fucking top slot headed into the tri-state final circuit. I’m sure you can get creative with it.”

“Yeah, at least they partnered me with you. You always find the best route.” I take a deep breath. Time to focus. I check over the speedometer, RPMs, oil meter, all those instrumentation panels that may very well be completely off. “Cyrus, brother?”

Cyrus looks over at me and jiggles the turn signal. “It works, I swear.”

“No. That’s not what I was going to say.” I let out my breath, but I’m not feeling any more relaxed. My muscles are tight as tripwire. “I just wanted to tell you thank you. For sticking your neck out for me like this.”

He shakes his head and looks down at his hands. “Oh, c’mon, Jags. It’s really nothing.”

“No. It isn’t. Not to me.” I squeeze his shoulder. “I know I’ve been a bit of a jackass in the past . . .”

“A bit?” he asks with a grin.

I manage a small smile. “Okay, two handfuls of jackass. Sometimes more. Especially when some chick was involved. But Sophie’s different. I hope you see that. And I hope you know I see it, too.” I check the side mirrors so he can’t see the glisten in my eyes. “She deserves better than this. And I’m gonna prove to her that I’m who she deserves.”

“Brother, you’ve got nothing to prove, far as I’m concerned.” Cyrus nods toward me. “You’re a fucking showoff when everyone already knows you’re the best. But that’s okay—you’ve earned it. And you’ve earned Sophie’s respect, too. I can tell she’s crazy about you.”

“Good. Then let’s bring her home.”

I roll down the window on my driver’s side and signal to Drazic and Nash that we’re ready to roll out. They’re in one regular car, and Elena and Lennox are in a third, though Cyrus and I are clearly driving the pace car. Planning to follow us out to the highway, then keep a safe distance until we get Sophie out. Only then will they swoop in to offer us protection all the way to safety.

Brett strides over to Cyrus and me and yanks the back doors of the van open. “Remember what I told you about the pass phrases?”

“Sure do,” Cyrus says, while I try to mumble them under my breath. Something about
desde puedes
and
estrellas
. I was never great with languages.

Brett arches an eyebrow at me. “Okay, well, just remember it’s all three of our asses. Let’s roll out.”

I tap the horn on the van—for a big hulking work vehicle, its horn squeaks like a puny mouse—and kick the engine into gear.

Kick
being the operative word.

“Take it easy, man!” Cyrus shouts, as the ignition squeals and shrieks while I hold it down, waiting for it to roll over to a start. “You’ve gotta be gentle. Take your time.”

I manage a wry grin. “I get no complaints from Soph.”

“Fuck, man. Sophie deserves your ass if she puts up with you.” He rolls his eyes. But my spirits are finally lifting. It feels good to be doing
something
to try to save her, no matter how desperate a shot it is.

Finally the engine turns and the van rumbles to life beneath me. We leave the lot next to Drazic Muscleworks with a scrape of rusted brakes and head for the Alonzo compound, deep in the desert hills.

* * *

F
or a secret compound
guarding one of the southwest’s leading drug cartel bosses and his inner circle, as well as his main distribution centers, it doesn’t look like much. The modest adobe-colored warehouse runs flush across the side of a low desert dune. Yet it’s swarming with vans much like ours, white ones and black ones and rusted-out pieces of shit that probably won’t handle the fluctuating desert temperatures too well.

“The compound goes down into the earth several floors,” Brett explains, leaning up between Cyrus’s and my seats. “We’ll go into the entrance over there—” he points to where a snaking line of vans stretches on the south face—“and check in with Franco Alonzo. Then I’ll do whatever the fuck I can to snatch some ledgers and your girl.”

That old familiar spike of adrenaline works its way into my blood. Fear and determination and frustration all bundled up. It’s just like any other circuit race, I tell myself. Turn here, ease past here, recite some bullshit pass phrases and pass muster with the Alonzo boss, pick up the relay goodies—meaning Sophie, in this case—and slide on past the finish line. Let’s hope it’s that easy. I yank the hood of my oversized black sweatshirt up and over my face and set my mouth in a straight line.

Game time.

We drive into the warehouse and park the truck where we’re directed to park. The whole compound swallows us up, cavernous. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck at the sight of the dozens and dozens of cartel workers busily loading up vans with crates of all sizes. I imagine the contents—cash, weapons, drugs, anything Franco Alonzo needs to ply keep his business running as smoothly as possible.

Someone knocks on my driver’s window while I’m idling and I roll it down. Brett leans over me to do a complicated handshake with the guy. “Hey, man. I brought in some of my newer crew members. Hope it’s square with you.”

The guy—he must be Brett’s lieutenant—gives Cyrus and me a quick once-over, then nods. “You better check with the boss. He’s wantin’ to see your ass anyway. Might as well bring them with. We’re giving rundowns on all the newer members, y’know, brothers we can’t recognize on sight. Something of a witch hunt right now, if you ask me.”

My jaw tightens and I resist the urge to glance toward Cyrus.

“Yeah. Okay, we’ll go see him.” Brett pats my shoulder. It feels like he’s trying to reassure himself as much as he’s trying to reassure me. It doesn’t help ease my nerves a bit. “Thanks, brother.”

“Anytime.”

Then I catch sight of Tyler, pacing the length of the warehouse. My blood pressure spikes; I can feel my pulse hammering in my veins. Where’s Sophie? Sophie isn’t with him. I’m not sure if that makes me relieved or even more concerned. I burrow deeper into the hood of my sweatshirt so he can’t see my face, just to be safe.

“This is all wrong,” Brett utters under his breath. “Franco wouldn’t call me up like this unless he suspects something.”

I’m feeling the wrongness, too. It’s gripping me like a vise. I jam my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. “We should grab Sophie and peace the fuck out. She’s gotta be close by.”

“We can’t. We have to get our proof,” Brett says.

“Look, I don’t give a fuck about your investigation—that’s my girl he’s got—”

“Jagger. Chill.” Cyrus cuts his eyes toward me. “You can’t do Sophie any good if your ass ends up in prison on Tyler’s stupid fucked-up charges. Or worse, dead.”

I take a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s just waltz right into the trap, then.”

“I’m working on it,” Brett says. “Just follow my lead.”

“Hey man.” One of the workers in front of us shoves another. “The fuck are you trying to pull?”

“I’m not pulling shit—”

But the guy catches him by the collar. “I saw you fucking pocket something. You stealing from the boss?”

“I’m not—”

“Are you stealing from the fucking boss?” he repeats, louder this time.

Franco storms over, his armed guards in tow, and gestures to both of the guys. “Search them both.”

Cyrus, Brett, and I freeze in place. Whatever’s about to happen, I want no part of it. But instead we’ve got a front-row seat.

The guards frisk both of the guys. “Yeah, he nabbed a kilo, boss,” one of them reports, grinning sickly sweet.

Franco nods, tapping one finger to his lips. “And the other?”

His face falls. “But he caught him—”

“I said to frisk them both,” Franco says, harsher this time.

“Right. Sorry.” He digs into the depths of the accuser’s cargo pants. “Well, would you look at that.”

Franco smiles at the accuser. “I’m wise to your games.” He takes a step back and turns away. “Kill him.”

The thief recoils, but the guards have already grabbed him. “Hey, man, what the fuck—”

But his cries are cut off as the guards haul them both away.

“Jesus Christ,” Cyrus whispers. That sweat that was trickling down my back is pouring now. This is so, so wrong. And where the hell is Sophie?

Franco gestures toward us. “You. Come to me.”

Brett and Franco execute the elaborate handshake again, but there’s no warmth in Franco’s eyes, nothing but a faint sneer on his lip as he stares at Brett. Like he’s sizing him up. Brett’s trying to look easy, but even his calm is slipping. His smile quavers as he rocks back on his heels and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“So who the fuck are these jackasses?” Franco Alonzo asks Brett.

“They’re my boys.” Brett punches his shoulders into the air. “Yeah, they’re kinda scruffy, but they do good work, you know?”

Franco steps up toward me, staring me right in the face. With a curl to his lip, he backhands me, sending my aviators flying. I flinch but swallow down my first instinct to get angry. All I want to do is sock him right back. But that won’t keep Sophie safe.

I grimace and meet his stare, the side of my face burning.

“You look like a tweaker,” Franco pronounces. “You think working for me’s an easy way to get some free product?”

“Hell, no.” I narrow my eyes. Hope he can’t see the sweat gathering on my forehead. “I’m clean.”

“Oh yeah?” Franco takes a step back and crosses his arms. “Roll up your fucking sleeves. Let me see your arms.”

I shove my sleeves up past my elbows and show the insides of my arms to him. No trackmarks. Franco
hmm
s to himself, then looks back to Brett. “You vouch for them?”

Brett nods. “I do.”

“All right. Good.” He fixes Brett with a hard stare. “I got a special load for you boys. Go wait in the van.”

As soon as Franco dismisses us, I snatch my aviators back up, bend them into shape, and jam them onto my face. I can’t risk Tyler seeing me. “We’re supposed to be finding Sophie,” I hiss to Brett, as he leads us back to the van. “We don’t have time to dick around with Alonzo and his ‘special cargo.’”

“Calm your tits. I’m doing what I can, all right?”

I prop myself against the side of the van and scan the warehouse. Tyler’s missing now, as is Franco. The tension in my shoulders grows. “Brett . . .”

Then I spot them, weaving out of a back room. Sophie. Oh, god. My throat burns as I stop myself from calling to her. She’s looking pretty ragged—her strawberry blonde hair in a tangle around her face, and dark sleepless circles under her eyes—but otherwise unharmed as Tyler hauls her forward, Franco Alonzo at his side. Still wearing the same clothes she was wearing during our failed rescue attempt last night. It’s all I can do not to beam at the sight of her, here, unharmed. My angel. I want to run from her and hold her and never let her be hurt again.

Instead I grunt and slide into the driver’s seat. The steering wheel is like a small comfort in my hands. I’m in control.

Brett slides open the back of the van, and Franco, Tyler, and Sophie climb in before he climbs in himself. “Congratulations, boys. Brett tells me you’re the best driver he’s seen, so you’ll do the honors of carrying the boss.” Franco’s smile in the rearview mirror is as thin as a knife’s edge. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Cyrus cracks his knuckles in the passenger’s seat beside me and pulls his hood up. Brett made good on his promise, then. He really can pull Alonzo our way. “We’ve got it under control.”

Sophie sits up straighter in the rearview mirror. She must recognize Cyrus’s voice. Her gaze sides toward me, and she allows herself the tiniest smile before hunching back down.

I don’t dare say anything. I don’t want to give myself away to Tyler. I tug the cords on my hood tight so not much of me is visible outside of my nose and my thick aviator lenses. Still, I can’t risk glancing into the rearview mirror to check on Sophie. I tap my fingers against the side of the steering wheel, take a deep breath, and force the van’s engine back to life. God, I hope Drazic and the others spot us on the highway.

“Point the way,” I tell Franco Alonzo, trying to disguise my voice as I speak.