Page 20 of The Cauldronball Run (Outlaw Country #2)

"I don't give a flying flip about frozen dairy products. I want those racing criminals in custody before they get out of the state," Grizz howled.

“Speaking of convoys,” another unit said, “there’s a shit ton of eighteen-wheelers heading our way, led by what looks like a very large, very hairy driver.”

“One degenerate criminal at a time,” Grizz said. Did he have to do everything himself?

"Daddy? I'm having some mechanical difficulties."

"Not now, boy. I'm in hot pursuit." He barked into his radio. "I need backup converging on my position. There are criminals heading for the Virginia state line."

"Sheriff, this is Deputy Pine from Knox County. What exactly are we looking for?"

"Dragons on motorcycles. Demons in a hearse. Some kind of invisible car. A vampire in a fancy foreign automobile. Trolls in an RV. Oh, and that green orc sumbitch in his fake ambulance."

Dead silence on the radio.

"Sir, did you say dragons on motorcycles? Why aren’t they flying?"

"Fire-breathing dragons, Deputy. On Harley-Davidsons. Keep up."

"Sheriff, have you been drinking?"

Virginia

Farrah

The green highway sign flashed by so fast she barely had time to read it.

Welcome to Virginia. She snorted to herself.

Should’ve said, Welcome to the last circle of hell, please fasten your seatbelts.

If Virginia wanted to welcome them, maybe it could start with fewer cops.

Blue lights flared in the mirrors, painting the night in strobing panic, and Farrah’s hands tightened on the wheel.

Her palms were slick, her shoulders aching from hours of tense driving, but she kept the ambulance straight at ninety-five.

J.J.’s hand covered hers on the shifter, a steady weight. “You’re doing perfect.” His voice was low, calm, the kind of voice that made her believe it even as another cruiser tried to box them in.

“Perfect would be pulling into a rest stop for cheeseburgers and a nap,” she muttered. Her stomach growled in agreement.

“All teams be advised, Virginia State Police have deployed deterrents on I-81. Repeat, spike strips ahead,” Bondo said.

“Fantastic,” J.J. snarled. “Another detour.”

Her witch-sense prickled before she even saw them.

There was a shimmer across the asphalt where the ley lines tangled.

Virginia was a haunted state, old wars and older ghosts baked into the dirt.

The magic here wanted out, and it thrummed in her veins like too much caffeine.

She flexed her fingers on the wheel, pulse hammering. “Nope. I’ve got this.”

The strips glinted in the headlights, sharp metal teeth waiting to shred tires. No time to brake, no space to swerve — and behind them Grizz and his team were bearing down, sirens howling like a war cry.

Farrah drew a breath and whispered a hex under it. Her words carried on the hum of the ley line. The world tilted, shimmered, and the spike strips twitched like startled snakes. With a sound like dry leaves scattering, the entire barrier slithered off the road and into the ditch.

The ambulance roared over clean asphalt.

J.J. laughed. “Having a witch as a partner is a handy thing.”

Farrah kept her eyes on the road, but joy pierced through her. “Almost as good as having an orc as a mate.”

He brushed his fingers over her thigh, a quiet promise beneath the chaos. “As soon as we cross the finish line, we’re making this bond permanent.”

She risked a glance at him, at the proud tilt of his tusked smile, at the warmth in his glowing eyes. Love swelled so hard in her chest it almost hurt.

“Jersey or bust.”

New Jersey - Final Stretch

J.J.

The new finish line was at a truck stop just outside the Holland Tunnel. J.J. could see the setup as they approached: banners, timing equipment, and a small crowd of race officials and hangers-on.

Through the windshield, J.J. could see the dragons' motorcycles approaching the timing banner. Farrah had her foot to the floor and the ambulance’s engine was straining, pushing as hard as it could go.

But they weren’t going to catch the dragons.

Torch and Blaze were about to claim the quarter o prize.

Disappointment flooded through him, but not as bad as he expected.

"They deserve it," Farrah said.

"Yeah, they do."

But as the dragons approached the finish line, their engines making victory sounds, a blur of speed passed by the ambulance and the motorcycles. Grizz’s patrol car zoomed across the finish line like a missile launched by pure spite and righteous indignation.

"What the hell—" Torch's voice cut off as Grizz's patrol car skidded sideways across the timing banner, blocking the finish line completely.

“Brake, brake,” J.J. said bracing his hand on the dashboard as Farrah slowed the ambulance down.

The sheriff climbed out of his car, badge extended like a holy symbol. His voice boomed across the truck stop. "Y'all are under arrest for conspiracy, reckless endangerment, interstate flight, and making a mockery of proper law enforcement."

The timing officials rushed forward with clipboards and stopwatches, consulting their equipment frantically.

Farrah parked the ambulance in the truck’s stop parking lot and she and J.J. got out to get a better look at what was going on. The other racers sped in and parked as well.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the head official announced through a bullhorn, "we have our winner: Sheriff Grizzley T. Lawman, representing Fairweather County Law Enforcement.”

"I’m not part of your degenerate law breakers," Grizz bellowed. "I'm arresting them. This is official police business."

The crowd erupted with confused applause.

"Congratulations, Sheriff. Your time qualifies you for first place in this year's Cauldronball Run. The prize is two hundred and fifty thousand gold."

"I said I ain't—wait, what now?" Grizz's expression shifted from righteous fury to bewildered confusion. "Did you say two hundred and fifty thousand gold?"

The officials carried two large sacks each. "Congratulations on your victory.!"

As Grizz stood there staring at the four bags filled to the brim with gold pieces, Pop Goes the Weasel played as the troll’s RV and the Mister Softie truck finally rolled to a stop at the edge of the parking lot.

The Mr. Softie driver climbed out, and the music mercifully stopped. He was a haggard-looking man in a stained uniform who looked like he'd aged ten years in five days.

"Is it over?" he asked desperately. "Can I leave now?"

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Who the hell are you?" Grizz demanded.

"I’m just an ice cream vendor. I need a drink. And a shower. I need to get home. My wife is going to kill me.” He climbed back in his truck, turned the key. But when he tried to drive away, the engine sputtered and died completely.

"No, no, no!" He turned the key again. The engine caught, and Pop Goes the Weasel began playing at double speed and triple volume, like a demonic remix.

The ice cream truck suddenly shot forward, tires smoking, the music now so loud it set off car alarms. The driver was screaming, though no one could hear him over the hellish carousel tune.

"Stop that vehicle,” Grizz said, tossing his bags of gold into the front seat of his patrol car. “It's possessed.”

The entire law enforcement contingent took off after the runaway ice cream truck, which was now doing donuts in the parking lot before shooting off down the highway, leaving a trail of smoke and dropped ice cream bars.

Within thirty seconds, every single law enforcement vehicle had abandoned the truck stop to chase the Mister Softie truck, whose music could still be heard like a sugar-fueled banshee wail.

The racers stood in stunned silence.

"Did we just..." Torch started.

"Get saved by an ice cream truck having a mechanical breakdown?" J.J. finished. "Yeah."

"The Lord's soft serve moves in mysterious ways," Father Darkness said.

"So, we're free to go?" Bondo asked from inside his UV protected car.

They looked around. No cops. No deputies. Just the race officials, who shrugged.

"The sheriff already collected his prize money," one official said. "We're just volunteers. We don't actually care what you do."

In the distance, they could still hear Pop Goes the Weasel at nightmare speed, followed by a symphony of sirens.

"Think they'll catch him?" Farrah asked.

"Honestly?" J.J. said, watching the last patrol car disappear over the horizon. "I hope not. That man's earned his freedom."

The demon priests crossed themselves, which caused them minor burns.

"Farewell, Mr. Softie," Father Mayhem intoned. "May your ice cream never melt and your music finally, finally stop."

"Amen," everyone said in unison.

"Same time next year?" Torch asked.

"Absolutely," J.J. said, pulling Farrah closer.

In the far distance, Pop Goes the Weasel hit its crescendo, followed by what sounded like a massive explosion.

"The weasel popped," Father Darkness observed solemnly.