Page 42 of Over the Edge

A drone.

Shit.

“I really fucking hope that’s not Sentinel,” Flynn muttered, already leaning out the window.

I took my eyes off the road long enough to look at the drone. “No. It’s too small, but still not friendly,” I muttered, swerving hard as the drone dipped lower, its red targeting light sweeping across our windshield.

Flynn twisted in his seat, tracking the drone’s zigzagging approach with his SIG. He fired twice at the drone, missing both shots as it darted away. “Damn thing moves like a hummingbird on crack.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Flynn muttered, steadying his aim. The drone swooped in again, and this time when he fired, the bullet connected with a satisfying crack. The drone spiraled, smoke trailing from its ruptured body before it smashed into the pavement behind us.

He whooped. “Got the little bastard!”

“Nice shot,” I muttered, eyes locked on the truck ahead as we gained ground.

Flynn reloaded. “All those quarters at carnival shooting galleries finally paid off.”

I cut him a sideways glance. “Please tell me that’s not really where you learned to shoot.”

He just grinned.

A black SUV suddenly roared out from a side street, cutting across our path with screeching tires. I wrenched the wheel hard to avoid collision, but our bumpers clipped. The Audi fishtailed, tires fighting for purchase.

“Hold on!” I shouted, struggling to regain control as we spun. The car clipped a parked moped, sent it skidding into a flower stand, then slammed sideways into a row of metal barriers, the impact jarring my teeth. I straightened the car, but we’d damaged something vital in the crash. I couldn’t get it up to speed and smoke poured from under the hood.

Flynn leaned out the window, gun in hand. Whether or not he actually learned to shoot at the carnival, his accuracy was astonishing. I caught his reflection in the cracked side mirror—eyes hard, mouth grim. He dropped one of the shooters, but two more replaced him, hanging out the side of the SUV like they were invincible.

“Damn it, Flynn, they’re not giving up!”

He ducked back inside a second before bullets slammed into the metal frame where his head had been. “Persistent bastards. I’ll give them that. Can’t you go any faster?”

“No.” Even as the word left my mouth, the Audi coughed and shuddered to a stop. Through the spiderwebbed windshield, I watched the transport truck disappear around a bend. The SUV that hit us was already reversing, preparing for another strike.

“Time to improvise,” Flynn said, kicking his door open. “Out. Now.”

We scrambled from the wreckage as the SUV’s engine roared. Flynn grabbed my hand and pulled me into a narrow alley between two buildings just as the SUV plowed into the Audi, crushing it like it was made of tinfoil.

I scanned for the truck. It was still visible, turning at the intersection ahead. “We need another car. We can’t let it reach its destination.”

“There.” Flynn pointed to a motorcycle parked outside a café, keys dangling in the ignition. The owner had stepped inside, helmet hanging from the handlebar.

Flynn swung his leg over first and grabbed the helmet, jamming it onto my head. I climbed on behind him, my arms circling his waist as he brought the engine to life with a throaty roar.

“Hold on tight,” he called over his shoulder, gunning the throttle.

“You’re fucking nuts!” I shouted as he cut across a boulevard without checking traffic.

“And you’re loving it!”

Dammit, I was.

I clung to him, my thighs pressed against his, body molded to his back as we chased after the vanishing taillights of the truck. stuck to eh”Get us as close as possible.”

The motorcycle leapt forward, engine screaming as Flynn pushed it to its limits. My arms tightened around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath his tactical gear. He handled the bike like it was an extension of himself—fluid, responsive, fearless. We shot through a red light, narrowly avoiding a taxi that blared its horn. I could feel Flynn’s laughter vibrating through his back. The man was genuinely enjoying this—the chase, the danger, all of it.

We gained on the truck, its massive form looming larger as we closed the distance. I could make out details now: reinforced panels, no windows in the cargo area, military-grade tires designed to keep rolling even after being shot.

It turned sharply, barreling through an outdoor café and leaving chaos in its wake. We followed, barely dodging an overturned table as debris rained across the road. My breath came in ragged gasps. My pulse hadn’t slowed in ten minutes.

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