Page 83 of The Bronze Garza

“Tire’s out!” the driver shouts.

Another jerk and judder, followed by more flapping sounds, then a loud scraping sound. “Fuck! Both are out. We gotta get out. Is Skipper still behind us?”

Heavy Set twists around, squinting through the back windshield. “Don’t got eyes on him, no.”

“We’re ways a fuckin’ way from Vegas,” Villain Voice comments, far less panicked than the others.

A zinging din sings on the air as the two bikers from earlier reappear from out of nowhere.

Villain Voice chuckles coolly as he gets his gun out. “Fuckers played us.”

“Yeah, these ain’t the motherfuckin’ Castellos,” the driver grunts out as he struggles to navigate the van with two blown tires.

One of the bikers ride up to Villain Voice’s window, and before Villain Voice can point his weapon, the biker pelts something inside the vehicle and speeds off.

Clouds of nebulous blue smoke immediately fill the van.

“What the—”

“Pull over! Pull over!”

In mere seconds, I’m enveloped in blue smoke and the scent of…cotton candy? My eyes don’t burn, but I’m unable to see anything but blue.

With a wild swerve, the van jerks, rims scraping loudly against the tar. Then there’s a sudden crack, followed by a jarring crunch of metal.

Doors fly open.

Curses.

A punch.

A thud.

More curses.

A gunshot.

Shouts.

Another gunshot.

Arms grab me and lifts me out.

I’m thrown over someone’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. They sprint with me as if I weigh as much as a pillow.

Panicked shouting fills the air.

Tires screeching. Horns blaring.

“Here, take the jeep. Bring her to your place,” a deep male voice tells my carrier. Followed by a toss of keys. “Tor’s on the way up.”

As my carrier resumes running with me, I peek up from my upside-down position and get a glimpse of the man who just spoke.

It’s one of the twins. I can’t tell which one, though, because he’s already turning and running toward the blue smoke wreck, where Heavy Set is being held facedown on the ground by another man, knee to the back of his neck. I can’t make out much else. It’s all puffs of blue smoke and horn-honking chaos.

When my carrier finally stops moving, he transfers me from his formidable shoulder and directly into the backseat of a jeep in one smooth, unhindered flow.

Just before he slams the door shut, he tells me, “I’m with Red Cage.” Then jogs around to the driver’s side, jumps in, and speeds off.