Page 71 of Violent Skies

We’re smart, even with the lack of prep we can do this. But my heart is racing faster than it ever has, and I think for the first time in my fucking life, I’m scared.

“Come here.” Riggs voice breaks the moment like a sledgehammer, his fingers wrapping around my bicep as he leads me toward the stairs. We go up to his office and he shuts the door behind him. “Now cry.”

I stare at him for a second, questioning the command, but it’s like he knew what my body needed before I could even begin to guess. The tears pour from my eyes like someone turned on a faucet, and I can barely catch my breath as he steps forward and wraps his arms around me.

“The roads are dry,” he whispers into the top of my head. “We’re all focused,” he says, listing off every subconscious worry. “We know the plan, the route, the exit.”

I gasp for air and he squeezes me tighter. The anxiety of what happened that night rushes in like a tidal wave and I’m drowning in the memories of Koa’s brash decision, Riggs's desperation to keep us safe, and the sound of the fire eating away at the metal of the car. But my body relaxes in his arms and my breathing aligns with the rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t say this often, Bird.” He clears his throat and sniffles, causing me to look up at him to find him watery eyed. “I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t,” I shake my head. “Don’t rattle off some speech. It’s bad luck and I know, I already know—”

Riggs chest rumbles with amusement but he doesn't let go just yet.

“Be careful. Be smart,” he says eventually, kissing the top of my head and stepping back to wipe his hands over his face.

The truck wobbles as I hit a crack in the road and readjust. Rafe and Riggs are a mile behind on the highway, and Jesse’s headlights are in my rearview mirror. Deep breaths, roads are dry, everyone knows the plan, we’re smart, quick, we can do this.

I correct my speed, steady my heart and catch my mirror again as I turn off the main road toward the intersection. If the timing is right, because Murphy is right, then the DEA truck will hit the cross point at the exact same time as me.

“DEA is rerouted.” Rafe pops over the radio at the same time as my previous thought.

“Bird, two minutes out,” Murphy warns. Of course he was right. When is he ever wrong?

I grab the helmet from the passenger seat, tugging it over my head with one hand and square my shoulders, praying for my bravery to return. Any time now.

“Okay, Birdie. Time to prove why everyone calls you the crazy one,” I mumble to myself, turning up the music until it thuds from the speakers and I shift gears to pick up my speed. “All you have to do is T-bone a government grade vehicle with your truck that your brother fixed up with welded junk from the yard…” My voice warbles and my hands rub over the steering wheel.

I can see the dust cloud from the other truck, and laugh wildly knowing that Murphy’s calculations were exact. This makes my confidence blossom. We can do this. I push the truck faster, the engine growling under the pressure, but I’ve got it up to a hundred and it should be enough to make this work.

I grip the wheel tightly with both hands, stabilizing myself and the truck as Murphy’s voice rings out in a thrumming, calm drone. Five, four, three…

This is fucking insane.

Two.

It’s never going to work and I’m going to fucking die here, on the side of the highway, being known as some meth-head lunatic that tried to take on the DEA.

One.

Metal crunches. Tires squeal. The impact rattles through my bones like a jackhammer in concrete. My teeth grind together but the harness keeps my body flush with the seat as we make vicious contact. I force my eyes to stay open, and in the second I blink the DEA humvee is tipped across the road sliding ten feet away.

“Holy shit, I think it worked!” I scream out, clawing for the radio attached to the dash but it’s gone. It must have gotten knocked off in the collision. My eyes scan the mess of metal and glass. The windshield is shattered, and as my adrenaline fades I start to feel the papercut-like gashes across my throat and arms. “Okay, out… Jesse!” I scream, fumbling with the buckles as the sound of tires sliding across gravel comes from behind me.

I panic for a moment, hoping that it’s not the other DEA vehicle in the convoy, but Riggs was taking care of them… I think. My head is fuzzy from the impact and my vision is blurrier than it should be. It must be from the previous injury. I blink a few times but it doesn’t clear. My door is ripped open and a set of tan hands are pulling me from the driver’s seat.

“You good?” Jesse asks as I find my footing.

“Yeah,” I nod quickly. “Yeah!” I push him off and find my balance before reaching back into the truck to grab my gun. We move as a unit, Jesse at my back watching the left and me on the right. I can hear the agents grunting on the other side of the truck as Rafe appears from the opposite road in a hurry. He roars to a stop, barely waiting for the wheels to plant before he’s out of the driver’s seat, marching toward the driver's side of the truck.

I hear his boot collide with a jaw, the crunch loud as the other agent hollers at him to stop. As we circle to the back Jesse slides out his crow bar to lever the back door open.

“Don’t move,” Rafe barks as Murphy hurries to fall in line beside me. As we round the corner my eyes flicker around, taking in the unconscious agent and the one that Rafe holds at gun point. Jesse pops the back open after another stressful breath and Murphy wraps to the back to help him unload the bags.

“Six!” I remind them and Jesse starts to count out loud as they drop them to the cement.

Riggs is next—his car curling around the accident with precision. He flicks the passenger door open. “We need to fucking go. The other truck is coming!” he barks. My left leg screams for relief as I limp in the direction of the bags, hauling two up on either shoulder.