Page 34 of The Fire We Crave

I look in the side mirror and see a truck pulled to a halt.

Catfish hammers the horn, constant and loud. “Move, motherfucker.”

“That truck’s too souped-up for this neighborhood,” I say. Not sure what it is that makes me itch, but I don’t like the tinted windows and the fact I can’t see the driver.

“Well, he’s about to get some dings to his doors if he doesn’t move out of my way,” Catfish says, not slowing down.

If anything, he’s speeding up.

While he’s looking over his shoulder, I glance forward. My heart rate notches up when I see three men are walking towards us. And this isn’t some leisurely stroll, unless they usually wear masks and the one in the middle always takes a semiautomatic out with him when he meets up with friends.

“It’s a trap,” I shout, hammering on the horn as I grab my gun from its holster. With any luck, Big Daddy will hear whatever happens next and bring some reinforcements.

Three men get out of the truck blocking our exit. The first shot blows out the rear window of the truck, while the fast ra-ta-ta-ta-ta of the semi is followed by the ping of bullets hitting metal from the front.

“Not my fucking truck,” Catfish complains as he dodges splintering glass.

“We’re sitting ducks if we stay where we are,” I say, ducking in my seat. There are too many bullets flying in too many different directions.

My heart races out of control. The noises sound too familiar. Like the snap of wood as it burns.

I shake my head. I can’t go back there right now.

But as I lift my head to quickly fire my weapon out of the shattered front windscreen, the noises land at the very base of my soul.

The scent of gun smoke blurs with that of burnt organic matter. The heat of the sun beating down on the truck flashes with that of a forest fire. For a heart stopping moment, I forget I’m in a Denver alleyway.

Catfish jams the vehicle from reverse into first gear, then slams the accelerator. We head straight for the three men walking towards us. It’s a messy ride. Knowing his truck is a write-off at this point, he no longer cares about dumpsters or other obstacles blocking our path.

He charges.

I grip my fists, hard, forcing myself back into the here and now as I glance up at the buildings around us. “There are too many cameras on this end of the alley. Don’t kill ‘em unless you have to,” I say. While I’m sure we’d be able to defend ourselves if we were arrested, it would tie Catfish up in trials for the next three years.

The three shooters attempt to jump out of the way. Two make it. The third, the one with the semi, doesn’t quite and gets clipped by the grill of the truck.

The thud is sickening, as is the scream that follows.

“Should be grateful I only broke your fucking leg, asshole.” Catfish sticks his arm out of the window and flips them the bird.

When I glance in my rearview mirror, I see the guy on the ground. One of his friends attempts to help him stand. But then, he falls back down to the ground in pain.

My sympathy is nonexistent.

“Same time next week. That’s what Big Daddy said, right?”

Catfish nods as he focuses on reaching the other end of the alleyway. “Why?”

“They seemed too prepared. Like they know your schedule.”

“Fuck me,” Catfish mutters. “This is usually Wraith’s run, but I offered to do it for the summer because Fen’s school is out. I’ve done it this time every week.”

“Go around the block, fast. I want to pull up behind that truck, follow them where they head back to,” I say.

“The truck’s shot up, and I’m probably running on a rim at the back. You can’t miss us.”

“Don’t give a fuck. We’ll be stop and start with all these stoplights, anyway. Plus, you’re the treasurer of the club. Pay for the damn rims with club funds.”

Catfish is right. We aren’t discrete. Thankfully, there isn’t the sound of a flat tire smacking against the asphalt, a rhythmic drumbeat that would announce our arrival. However, we do get plenty of looks, and more than one person raises their phone to take a picture of the truck.

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