Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
The cars close in, and we’re going to have to dump the cart in a minute.
Trace’s phone rings, and he answers it, holding it up. “Yeah?”
“They are closing in,” Army says over the speakerphone. “And they have nothing better to do tonight. Got themselves a little frat boy militia that’s practically masturbating at how important they feel, hunting you dipshits down.”
“Yeah, they’re on us,” I chime in.
“Keep them trailing as long as possible,” Army instructs. “When you’re out of road, jump ship.”
“And go where?” Trace blurts out.
“Out of sight,” Army barks, authority lacing his words more and more after he became a police officer. He sounds like Macon now. “One of you is fucking someone that can hide you till morning.”
“I’m not that close to anyone I’m screwing,” I retort.
Trace chuckles.
Iron looks at me. “What about the school?”
I arch a brow. “That’s the first place Callum will look.”
He knows I have keys.
An engine roars behind me, and I glance back, seeing both black sedans charging us. I suck in a breath. They can go a lot faster than us. They’re going to run us off the road.
Milo’s BMW advances, revving on our asses.
“Shit,” Iron grits out.
“We gotta go, man,” Trace tells Army.
He hangs up, Iron looking back at me. “The truck is parked in the alley behind Lucinda’s,” he says.
The dress shop downtown?
“We’ll meet there,” Trace instructs.
Iron starts to slow, horns honking behind us, Jerome’s car swerving toward Milo’s and their lights glaring at us.
“Don’t get caught,” I tell my brothers.
Iron bounds over the curb and onto the sidewalk, all of us leaping from the golf cart as it crashes into some hedges. Milo’s car rams into the back of it, and I hear a growl behind me, “What the fuck are you doing?”
But I’m running before I can tell who Callum’s shouting at.
Are they trying to kill us?
We all race up a driveway. Trace’s favorite little cottage on Willow Glen, whose lawn he used to mow, glows with the gaslight lantern next to the front door. The elderly snowbirds living there won’t be back till November, and we could hide in there. He still has a key.
It’s best to stay on the run, though.
My brothers leap the wooden fence, and I follow, landing on the other side.
“Split up!” Trace yells, and I watch Iron scale the next fence on the other side of the cottage’s pool, while Trace cuts through a tree line, into the neighbor’s yard.
I let them go.
Peering through the slits in the wood panels, I watch Callum—in his car—back out onto the street, his eyes fixed on the direction we ran.
Milo’s trying to reverse his car.
In a moment, Jerome lays on the gas and he and Callum dart off, down the lane to cut us off.
Backing away from the fence, I listen to his engine as he coasts away. It fades a little, but then it’s there again as Jerome makes a right, driving in the direction Iron went. Milo’s tires screech, still struggling in front of the house, and I flinch, training my ears to single out Callum’s engine. The town’s not big. He’ll have cops posted at both roads leading in and out of the Bay, and he’ll anticipate we’ll be trying to get to the storehouse or the school.
Mimi Collins’s house is behind a gate and they have no reason to go into that area, so Macon and his guys should be safe. Until they try to leave, that is. Hopefully, Army is keeping him posted.
Tilting my head, I listen for Jerome and Callum’s car as it makes another right.
Heat radiates off everything. The grass, the tree trunks, the pool, and the sweat trickling down my neck and spine.
What is he going to do? Once he has us arrested, will he be happy?
Of course not. He’s a fucking shell, and I don’t care what Macon says about the long game. They’re all nothing, and I’m tired of protecting our land.
I want theirs.
Tonight, I’m kicking his ass. He’s not making me run. Not now. Not ever.
I chase the sound of their engine, scaling the fence and jumping down into a small wooded area. Jogging to keep track of their movement, I follow the gentle rumble down into the business district, halfway between where we crashed the cart and Marymount.
Hiding in the trees, I follow their taillights, running alongside them as they check the storehouse and take the quiet street up to Marymount.
A police officer moves ahead, searching the school parking lot while I notice Milo’s BMW is parked over a curb. Jerome and Callum screech to a halt behind his vehicle, an officer hovering over Milo.
Callum climbs out of Jerome’s Audi, slamming the car door.
He charges up to Milo. “Fuck, what are you doing?” he barks.
Milo gets in his friend’s face. “I would’ve caught them!”