Page 93

CONAN

I see her headlights and exhale in relief.

She’s here. She’s okay.

On the screen, the red dot shows Finn closing in fast from the east.

But just as my light—and hers—turn green, headlights emerge from my right.

The BMW.

Motherfuckers.

She crawls forward, oblivious, and the car barrels through the red light straight for her.

I slam my foot on the gas.

“HALLIE. FOOT DOWN. GO!” I roar, the engine snarling as I hurtle toward the blacked-out BMW.

“Conan!” Her voice cracks with panic.

Everything slows—the way it always does when I’m about to do something reckless. My hood connects with their doors in a deafening impact. Metal warps, glass explodes. My head jerks forward so hard I see stars, the seatbelt digging into my ribs.

But I keep my foot buried on the accelerator.

The BMW lurches sideways, flips over itself once—twice—and comes down in a shuddering heap. Dark smoke pours from under the crumpled hood, billowing into the night air.

I grab my gun from my lap.

“Conan! Can you hear me?” Hallie’s voice is a broken plea in my earpiece.

“Baby, lock your car and pull over. I’m coming to you.”

We’ve got backup on the way. She’s safer with me than on her own.

I kick my door open and jump down onto the asphalt, adrenaline buzzing like electricity in my veins.

Gun raised, I stalk over to the wrecked BMW. The smoke stings my eyes as I peer through the shattered window.

Two men slump motionless inside, but they’re still breathing—shallow, ragged.

Good. They can live long enough to answer my questions.

They wanted to try me?

They picked the wrong fucking day. And clearly they have a death wish.