It hadn't been up to thirty minutes since we dropped Milo. The road stretched endlessly ahead of us, silent except for the low hum of the engine and the faint rush of wind against the windows.
He kept glancing into the rearview mirror, once, twice… too many times. At first, I didn't want to ask, didn't want to break whatever silence had wrapped itself between us. But then, he jerked the steering wheel slightly to the left, then right again, a sharp movement that made my chest tighten.
His jaw flexed, brow tightening as if something just clicked in his mind — and it wasn't good.
"Is there a problem?" I finally asked, my voice soft, uncertain.
His eyes flicked to mine — just for a second. "We're being tailed."
My heart stuttered. "What? Who—"
Before I could even turn to look, his hand shot out — fast — pressing my head down just as something slammed against the front of the car with a deafening crack!
Glass fragments sprinkled across the dashboard like glittering dust.
"What the—" I started, but he hissed, "Stay down!"
Another bang! followed, and the windshield splintered, spiderweb cracks crawling across its surface.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the hole. A dark curse slipped past his lips.
"Armor-piercing rounds," he muttered. "Looks like they're using M995 AP — military-grade. These bastards aren't playing around."
He gritted his teeth, slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "Damn it. This car's supposed to be bulletproof… but this—this is what happens when you're hunted by people with money and power.
The words hit harder than the bullets. My breath caught in my throat.
Was about to ask what he meant, when he turned to me sharply, his voice cutting through the growing panic.
"Seatbelt. On. Now."
"What—"
"Do it!"
The force in his tone made me flinch, and I fumbled for the belt, pulling it across my chest and clicking it into place. The moment I did, the car lurched forward, his foot slamming down on the accelerator.
The sound of tires screaming against asphalt filled my ears as the world outside blurred into streaks of gray and green. The speedometer climbed — 120… 140… 160 km/h — faster than I'd ever gone in my life.
"Stay down!" he barked again, one hand gripping the wheel, the other shoving my shoulder until I ducked below the dashboard.
I barely caught my breath before the first gunshot cracked through the air.
A flash of metal — a bullet — sliced through the front windshield.
He hissed under his breath. "Shit."
Two dark bikes — black, sleek, like something out of a nightmare — swerved into view from both sides of the car. The riders leaned forward, wind tearing at their jackets, helmets reflecting flashes of light.
More bullets. Sparks danced across the hood.
"Get to the backseat," he ordered.
I didn't think — I just moved.
Unclipping the seatbelt, I ducked low, curled into myself on the rear seat, hands over my ears, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Everything was a sound — the engine's furious growl, the whine of tires, the staccato of bullets hitting metal and glass like angry rain. My breath came shallow and hot against my palms, car swerved violently. My shoulder slammed into the door, but I barely felt it — adrenaline drowned everything.
The moment I reached the back seat, I heard a metallic click — something mechanical shifting inside the car.
He pressed a small button on the dashboard. From the front panel, two compartments slid open near the headlights. Hidden barrels extended, locking into place with a whirring sound.
"Stay down," he cut me off.
He reached beneath his seat, pulling out a compact firearm — smooth, matte-black, built for precision. His movements were fast, deliberate, no hesitation. He leaned slightly to his left, window cracked open just enough, and fired.
One of the bikers veered off course. The other pulled closer, firing back. Bullets shattered glass, fragments flying across the seats.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I pressed myself deeper into the seat, trying to breathe, trying to believe this wasn't happening.
The car swerved again — another loud crack — and the smell of burning rubber filled the air.
"Hold on!" he yelled, spinning the wheel hard.
The world outside twisted — a blur of motion and chaos — and all I could think was that we were running for our lives.
...
Through the crack of the rear window I could see the two dark shapes leaning in on us — bikes, black and low, mirrors flashing light. They moved like sharks, circling, closing. My world narrowed to the rhythm of his voice and the way the car moved beneath him.
He steered with his left hand as if it were the only thing steady in the world. Then he pushed the wheel to the right, angling the nose of the car toward the biker on our passenger side. The car rubbed against that space like a warning, body press meeting body press. The side of their bike clipped a sliver of our bumper, sparks spitting off metal.
My heart jack hammered. He kept his grip on the wheel with his right hand and — impossibly quick — brought a gun up with his left, the muzzle appearing from the small gap of the open window. I heard the single, tight breath he took.
A shot cracked. The biker's front wheel shuddered, wobbling. The whole machine pitched sideways as if someone had cut its legs out from under it; the rider flailed, helmet glancing off metal, and the bike folded in a slow, terrible tumble behind us. The sound of it going down — a metallic scream and then a thud — echoed like a punctuation mark.
He didn't hesitate. While the first bike was still collapsing, he nudged the wheel back to the middle, then a hair to the left, exposing the other rider for a second. The flash of an arm, the tilt of a torso — I saw the helmet like a black moon. He squeezed the trigger again. This time the shot was aimed higher; the biker's head jerked, then the machine arced and slammed, sparks and shredded rubber scattering as it flipped and skidded off into the gravel.
There was no flourish. No triumphant breath. Only the car's engine and the sharp scent of burned fuel and hot metal. He swore under his breath, more to himself than to me, the sound small and furious in the close space.
Then, as if threading a needle, he stabbed the wheel, the car fishtailing into a controlled, practiced drift — the kind of move you saw in films, but real and raw and terrifying when you were on the inside of it. He let the rear end slide out, tires screaming, and the car spun in a smooth, deadly U-turn that left my stomach hanging for an instant and then slammed it back into place. The world outside blurred into streaks of roadside and sky and the shredded shapes of the two fallen bikers behind us.
My skin hummed; my muscles felt like someone had poured liquid heat into them. He didn't look at me. He was all angles — jaw set, eyes hard, hands steady on the wheel. The road behind us had opened into a new threat: another car, tailing at a distance, creeping closer as if it had been waiting for that exact moment.
He didn't waste time measuring. He drew the car around clean and fast, bringing the nose to bear on that tailing vehicle. The movement was so precise it made my head swim; the car seemed to obey him as if it were part of his body. He lined up, aimed through a fraction of an opening, and fired at the tires. I watched the back wheel of the other car erupt in a shower of rubber and sparks. It fishtailed hard, furious and roaring, then did what a wounded vehicle does: it slowed into chaos.
Before the driver could recover, the passenger — the one who'd been leaning out, probably to take a shot — moved, and he moved faster. I heard the single shot that was almost a blink; the passenger slumped, head drooping onto the steering wheel with a dull thud. The driver panicked, hands wobbling on the wheel. He aimed for him the way a surgeon aims an instrument — direct, clinical. The next shot punched through the windshield, clean and absolute. The driver's hands went slack; the car spun and rolled, a sheet of glass and burning rubber that rolled once and then lay still.
For a second there was nothing but the ringing in my ears and the smell of smoke and the low throb of my own pulse. He drew a slow breath like he'd been holding it for miles. The world felt suspended — a film caught between frames.
Then he straightened the wheel and eased us back into our lane, the engine finding a new steady tone. He tore a glance at me — quick, inhumanly quick — like a surgeon checking a patient after a dangerous cut. The look was not soft, but it had something like relief folded into it.
"You okay?" he asked. The words were small, but they reached me. I let my hands fall from my ears.
My hands were shaking. I nodded because my voice had been taken somewhere between bullets and movement. He watched me for a beat longer, then his mask — the hard, unreadable thing — slid back just enough for me to catch something like a human exhale.
"Stand up, slowly," he ordered. His voice was firm but there was no panic now, only a cold, efficient calm that felt more dangerous than fear.
I pushed at the door, muscles trembling, and sat up. The back of my head buzzed from being pressed down; my throat felt raw. Outside, the road lay scarred and still behind us: the ruined bikes, the smoking car shuddering on its side. Ahead, the lane unrolled like a ribbon, ordinary and stupidly innocent.
He checked the mirrors, then reached for the radio and killed it. No static, no noise; just the engine and the two of us breathing.
"It's clear," he said, but I could hear the warning under his words. "For now."
I swallowed and met his eyes. They were fierce, tired, and terrible with the kind of focus someone had when they'd been forced to cross a line they'd never wanted to cross more than once. "Who were those people?" I asked, voice small.
He looked at me as if he were choosing which thing to tell me, which thing to keep.
"Paid," he said finally. "And bad at their job." He almost smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You okay to keep going?"
My legs felt like cotton, but the thought of stopping — of pulling over — felt like a worse danger. I nodded. He eased the car back up to speed, hands sure on the wheel, and the ordinary march of the road swallowed us again.
As the asphalt flowed under us, the adrenaline slowly uncoiled. I could feel my heartbeat steady, little by little. He glanced at me once more, that same fast assessment, then turned his attention forward. The world outside continued, indifferent: signs, trees, one lone motorcycle rider drifting away down an exit ramp.
He said nothing else for a long while. The silence was not empty;
it was held, full of unasked questions and the small, sharp truth that we had just been hunted and had lived. I kept my head low, fingers knotting and unknotting in my lap, and let the car carry us forward — farther from the noise, but not entirely, from the knowledge of what had just happened.