Sherman
The speedometer was screaming past 150, and still, it wasn’t fast enough.
The highway blurred into streaks of asphalt and headlights, but all I could see—all I could think about—was West Harbor. And Silvia.
Alpha Enzo’s voice still echoed in my head, sharp and clipped through the static of our last call: “West Harbor. That’s where he’s heading—”
Then nothing.
Radio silence and a sickening screech as I watched his SUV whip into a brutal U-turn in the rearview.
And just like that, I was on my own.
I slammed the gearshift forward, ignoring the engine’s protest as the needle punched toward 110. Every second since had been a nightmare dressed in gunmetal and gasoline.
Alpha Enzo’s convoy had been ambushed—again.
Motorcycles, black sedans, goons with more amm
