Page 29 of Violent Skies

We all wait.

The exit sign to highway 238 whips by us and I cock my hand up, firing off the fake gun and setting it all into motion. Murphy drags the car to the right as we pull onto the quiet stretch. We have less than the normal distance before he pulls back onto highway 8 and it’s causing everyone to panic more than usual.

Koa, thankfully, does his job, and the semi seems to slow a little to deal with the erratic driving. With the speed lowered I whip around, take a deep breath, and crawl to the roof of the car with the bolt cutters in my back pocket.

“Closer,” I holler through the sun roof at Murphy and he surges the car forward a touch giving me a smaller gap for the jump. I pull the bandana up and over my face, checking everything one more time. I count to three before launching across, getting my hand around the locking bar. My boot slips off the rear guard but I haul myself closer to the frame more securely with a racing heart.

I shimmy across the bar, keeping tight to the doors until I’m on the left. The pavement whips by beneath me and I let the adrenaline take hold of my muscles to get the job done. It’s simple from here, the jump being the worst part of it all. I dig out the cutters and pop the lock on the doors, pulling hard to get it free and letting the right door swing open in the wind.

I hold my breath as Rafe gives Birdie space, pulling back as she drifts the truck in a wicked, tight circle and forces it backwards. It took Murphy an entire year to figure out how to reverse engineer the dual-gear box system and Birdie another six months to master the rear wheel steering modification. The truck wobbles for a second as she gets up to speed, but she watches over her shoulder out the rear window and pushes it until it's backed up against the semi-truck with about a foot between them.

I get inside and stare at the boxes. Nothing is labeled like it usually is, but Koa just told us to get as much as we could…

Stepping forward with a wide, balanced step I rip open one of the boxes. The top is layered with phone chargers. Why the fuck would Westfall have us lifting these? I pick one up and the rage that fills me is uncut and all I see is red.

Beneath the boxes of chargers are bricks of cocaine, at least six per box.

“You fucking idiot,” I swear, looking out the back of the semi. Drugs are a different kind of danger that we swore we’d never touch. But Koa can’t ever stand still, he chases the power to control everything like a dog with a bone.

I don’t want to do this. I’m going to kill him for dragging them into it. But I don’t have a choice; we’re in the middle of this now. I just need to unload it. I can see Birdie urging me to move my ass through the window of the truck so I refocus and start to move. The only thing that Koa was right about on this job was the ramp being on board against the wall. I toss it out, connecting the trucks together as Birdie keeps herself as steady as possible. Rafe follows her, practically bumper to bumper as a fail safe in case the speed dips, but they’ve practiced it a hundred times and I’m proud of how well they’re handling the speed.

I unload the truck as quickly as I can, taking the rickety ramp back and forth with boxes until the back of Birdie's truck is three quarters loaded. The semi shakes and the horn starts to blare. Whatever Koa is doing, the driver is sick of his shit.

“You gotta move!” Murphy hollers. I can barely hear him over the sound of the wind and the engines but I pick up my speed. The truck wobbles again and I lose my footing, my hand barely catching the lock bar as my back slams against the side of the semi knocking the wind out of me. My grip falters and I slide down a foot—my boots barely above the pavement, my life dangling before my eyes.

Birdie does her best to hold her truck still and I can see Rafe darting left and right to try to get his sights on me. After another second he decides the worry is worth it and swerves right. The car struggles for a second in the gravel but he corrects and burns through the dust toward me. He pushes as close as he can and gives me a boost on the hood of his car to pull myself up and get a grip on the rear bar with my boot again.

My muscles are screaming at me and I let my head fall against the door for half a second, catching my breath while Rafe drops back into position.

“Riggs!” Murphy’s screaming again, and I can see the connecting Highway 8 in the distance. I move quickly, pulling the ramp back into the semi. The second they’re disconnected Birdie slows, and Rafe with her, until they’re pulled to the side of the road. Murphy whips in behind the semi, and gives me a quick nod.

Fuck. I count down again and go to push off the semi but it lurches forward and I lose my footing at the last second causing me not to go as far. Murphy sees it before I can register what’s happened and forces his car forward to catch my fall. My fingers hook into the gap, and Murphy swerves slightly out of control, unable to hold it at that speed for much longer. I look up at him through the window with a wicked grin on my face while his expression is pure fear.

I nod and he slows enough for me to pull myself up and over the roof, lowering myself back into the car.

“You’re getting better,” I say to him the second I’m secure.

He doesn’t respond. Shifting gears, he throws the car in a circle and retreats back to where Birdie and Rafe wait for us. I watch in the rear view as Koa speeds up and cuts the semi off before the turn off. The horn blows again loudly but the sound of the Cuda purring screams over everything and he whips down the highway in nothing but a blur of red.

“Meet at the dock,” comes over the radio on the dash and I wave to Rafe and Birdie out the window as we pass, getting them to follow.

“What’s up his ass today?” Murphy asks after about twenty minutes of driving.

“I don’t know,” I lie and my phone vibrates in the center console. I pull it out and read the text from Koa: three dollar signs and a smiley face.

PRESENT DAY

“Are you even listening?” Birdie cuts through the memory and I shake my head.

“It’s dangerous,” I remind her. “We don’t—”

“Know the variables,” she mocks. “That’s bullshit, Riggs. Stop saying that. We’ve done runs with less information. It’s just a race,” she argues.

The amount of times I’ve come too close to losing them all is a time too many, and everything about this race screams death. I wish she could see that I’m trying to protect her from all the secrets that Koa kept hidden in his closet. Whoever this Malosi guy is, Koa was in deep, and we have no idea how far. But I know my brother never knew when to draw the line. He craved the ability to control everything around him all the time.

This isn’t as simple as killing some thugs, winning some money, and being left alone.

Something larger is at play, but I can’t get them to see the full picture without giving them information that will ruin how they saw him. And I can’t risk that, they already hold so much resentment toward me for being the reason he’s gone.