Page 138 of Scarred Angel

His grin falters for one heartbeat, then slides back, and he lifts his chin. A prideful son of a bitch to the last breath.

“Sub umbra venimus,” he whispers.

Remi empties the entire mag into him with no hesitation and no mercy. His body jerks with each round until his face is unrecognizable, and he finally slumps sideways, sliding down the bumper in a lifeless heap.

“Hey…” I reach for her, but when she looks at me, her eyes are like fractured glass.

Shattered and gone somewhere I can’t reach.

A hot surge of anger rises in my chest, guilt on its heels because I couldn’t protect her from this heartbreak.

Screeching tires grab my attention. It’s one of them.

I don’t think.

Don’t breathe.

I sprint.

And I’m behind the wheel of Poison Ivy before anyone can stop me.

“Valentina—!”

Voices blur behind me. But nothing matters except the bastard trying to get away. I slam the pedal down and take off after him.

Fifty-Four

MAKSIM

“Goddamn it!”

I ram my fist into the wheel until my knuckles bleed. My phone is in my hand, Valentina’s name burning across the screen, but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. No answer. So I try again. Two, three more times. Same result.

“Fuck,” I roar, flooring it toward where I saw her last. “Why would you do this to me, Kolibri?”

I pound the wheel again, feeling desperate, enraged, and so fucking helpless. Those men aren’t just pieces of shit street racers. They’re something more. And when I find out who they are, where they stay, not a single one will be left standing.

Another unanswered phone call makes my heart lurch, but just as city lights smear ahead of me, I hear it. The distant, beautiful wail of a Supra. My jaw tightens, and I bite down the urge to kill and instead aim to find her first.

“Pick up. Pick up, goddamn it!” I jab the screen one more time, and her voice comes through, ragged. “Maksim, I'm sorry. But I have to do this.”

“Do what, Valentina?” I hiss. “What the fuck are you trying to do by yourself?”

She draws a long, hard breath. “This is bigger than tonight. It was set up. All of it. Starting from the garage.”

“Either way, you running off alone, trying to get yourself killed, doesn’t help anyone.”

I hear tires screeching over the line, and I know she’s still in pursuit.

“If we lose them, we may never get another chance. Not before they get us first.”

I thread my M8 through traffic, taking gaps other drivers don’t see, and spot her a few hundred feet ahead, weaving and cutting lanes.

I call her name, “Valentina?—”

But she cuts me off and answers with four words that make my blood stop, “Maksim, I love you.”

The line goes dead.