Page 5 of Velvet and Valor (Platinum Security: Shadows of LA #4)

Our limo suddenly tears hard to the left, crossing two lanes of the freeway with the rabid squeal of tires. I’m thrown to the limits of my seatbelt, leaning close to the window. I can see another car rushing toward us, at least that’s how it seems from my point of view.

I know we’re going to hit them, it is as inevitable as the dawn. We smash into the other car and a scream rips from my throat. The other vehicle, a small electric car, fishtails like crazy and slams into the side of a pickup.

I cringe at the sound of twisted, screeching metal and heavy crunches behind us. So many people hurt, maybe even killed, all for what?

How did I end up here? If someone pitched my experience to me as a movie plot, I’d laugh them out of my office for being too far-fetched. I lose sight of the black muscle car. The limo pours on the speed and stretches a wide gap between us and the pile up.

The traffic drops down from four lanes to two ahead, which is bunching up the traffic somewhat. Our driver doesn’t slow down much at all, weaving in and out between lanes and narrowly avoiding a collision by mere inches.

“Is he still back there?” Moorcrock asks, craning his neck to see behind them. “I think we got him…shit.”

The black muscle car rips along the shoulder, re-joining the main road once it moves past the wreck.

“Who is this guy?” Moorcrock mutters. “The freaking Terminator?”

“Maybe it’s the Italians,” the driver calls back.

“Nah, they’re in shambles after Moreno got pinched for that crazy scheme,” Moorcrock says. “And I don’t know of any other players in the game who’d be gauche enough to drive a Charger.”

Moorcrock’s eyes narrow, and he gives me a suspicious look.

“I have no idea who that is,” I sputter, holding a hand up in the air.

Moorcrock relaxes.

“I believe you.” He looks up toward the driver. “Jimmy, I think you’re going to have to do the thing.”

The thing? What thing?

“Traffic is awful thick, Mr. Moor–boss,” the driver says.

“Jimmy, I didn’t ask for notes, I said do the thing,” Moorcrock growls.

Jimmy mutters something under his breath and flips a switch on the dashboard. A hissing sound emanates from the direction of the trunk. Suddenly, the car surges forward with an astonishing burst of speed.

“It won’t last long, Boss,” Jimmy shouts, struggling to keep control of the limo.

He oversteers as the road hits a slight curve.

I look out my window and see the concrete barrier growing closer and closer.

Graffiti featuring a prominent anarchy symbol looms in my face right before we strike in a bone-rattling collision.

I’m thrown back and forth as the limo bounces off the dividing wall and careens into another lane of traffic. We smack into another car, sending it flipping end over end. My god, those poor people! Nothing can be worth all of this mayhem.

I soon realize I need to be worrying about myself just as much as the other people on the road. Jimmy has straightened the wild limo out again, but now we have a new dilemma: Another wreck blocks the road ahead.

A really nasty one, too. A semi-truck has jackknifed, blocking all but one of the three remaining open lanes. Cars are lined up behind the wreck for half a mile.

With nowhere else to go, Jimmy steers into the lane undergoing construction. Wooden sawhorses shatter into kindling as we blast through them one by one, not slowing in the slightest. Then the limo hits a section of road where the pavement has been carved away until only gravel remains.

On the new, slippery surface, Jimmy can’t keep control. He slams on the brakes, but it’s too late. The limo rockets straight toward the trailer blocking the road.

“Down!” Moorcrock cries, tucking his head between his knees. I fold myself in half over my briefcase and whimper.

The impact isn’t nearly as hard as I expected. We slow, but don’t stop, continuing out on the other side of the wrecked trailer.

The limo’s roof, on the other hand, is no longer with us. It’s become a convertible. The highway noise and the wind are deafening, and I can’t see at all with my hair wildly whipping into my face.

“Fucking Christ, Jimmy,” Moorcrock hollers over the wind. “I’d like to be alive at the end of this.”

“We got worse problems than that, boss,” Jimmy shouts back.

The muscle car returns into sight, skidding off onto the shoulder. Its rear wheels spin ever closer to a sheer drop off a fifty-foot cliff. I watch, transfixed, as the car sort of floats through a tight turn that doesn’t seem physically possible.

“Who the Hell is that supposed to be, Evel Knievel?” Moorcrock bellows. “Maybe I should hire him as my driver.”

The muscle car pulls up beside us. Jimmy aims his gun, but the muscle car abruptly slams into us. The gun flies out of Jimmy’s hand and falls out onto the highway.

“Jimmy, you fucking moron,” Moorcrock sputters. “I’m going to–”

The black car slams us again, much harder than the last time. Moorcrock’s head bounces off a metal strut left exposed by the shorn-off roof. His eyes go glassy and his head lolls. The lights are on but nobody’s there.

The muscle car slows just enough that it’s riding next to my position in the limo. The driver peers over at me and motions toward himself.

“Jump!” he shouts.

Jump? Is he out of his fucking mind?