Page 59 of Torched Spades
Like my blood pressure, the speedometer keeps climbing, but it’s not enough. I already have the gas pedal pressed as far as it will go. Any more force and I’ll be Fred Flintstone-ing this motherfucker down Westminster Street.
The distance between their rear bumper and my front one keeps lengthening and tightening like a goddamn accordion. One moment I’m almost close enough to spin them into one of Providence’s historical brick walls, and the next, I’m being shoved twenty feet back by pedestrians and minivans.
Another sharp right, then a hard left, and I’m making bargains for a soul I’ve already cashed out. “I swear to fuck, I’ll swim in a river of fire for eternity if I have to—just let me get my hands on these assholes.”
I’m not praying to Satan. I’m negotiating. There’s a difference.
Cars are coming out of nowhere, nearly skewering me on either side. Horns blare as they swerve to opposite sides, one slamming into a telephone pole while the other takes out an antique store. Still, I don’t look back. Guilt is a useless emotion, and I don’t have time to fuck with it.
Right now, rage and jealousy are the only two emotions in control, and ever since walking out of Imperial Diner, they’ve taken turns riding shotgun.
The mind can be a body’s sharpest tool or its deadliest poison. Either it’s on, or it’s off. Either it’s working with you, or it’s working against you. There’s no middle ground. It’s how serial killers get away with murder for years, only to end up getting caught in a traffic violation with their neighbors on the news talking about how “he seemed like such a nice guy.”
Sharp tool and deadly poison—two extremes separated by a razor-thin line. For a serial killer, that line is normalcy. For me, it’s Becca Brennan.
Eighty-five.
Ninety.
Ninety-five.
These two-lane Providence roads weren’t intended to sustain high-speed chases. There’s probably more tread on the asphalt than my tires, but after seeing those twostronzos, Mac and Dice, sitting in a sedan outside the diner—behind her fucking car—I’m done worrying about consequences and risks.
They made this personal.
My focus darts from the road to the glove box, and it’s all I can do not to take one hand off the wheel and jerk it open.Five seconds.That’s all the time it would take to have the 9mm in my hand, aim, fire a bullet into each back tire, and send them spinning into oblivion.
Butthosegunshots wouldn’t be “alleged.” They’d be admissible evidence Ledger and Reese would happily use to lock me up.
“Fuck!” I slam my hand against the steering wheel when, with one more turn, I recognize where we are. More importantly, I recognize where we’re headed.
I-95.
In less than thirty seconds, we’ll hit the interstate exit, and containment will be impossible. All my life, I’ve been taught to never waste time weighing options. “Powerful men make prompt decisions, son… Only the weak waver.”
My father’s advice may have come with more strings attached than a box of marionettes, but they were always tied to the truth. So, gritting my teeth, I make my decision less than four hundred feet away from the exit.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I call the last person I want to talk to, and the only one I can.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Owen groans on the other end of the line.
“773-879,” I rattle off, my eyes glued to the back of the sedan. “Run the plate and get me an address. I don’t care who you have to fuck to get it done.”
“What? Why? Where the hell are you?”
“At the DMV, where the fuck do you think I am?”
I hear rushed movement, then a door slams. “Jesus Christ, Johnny. If you’ve gotten into another altercation—”
“Will you shut up and listen?” I explode. “Shit’s getting ready to blow, Owen, and not in a good way. I was at Imperial Diner when I noticed the same assholes who tried to rough up Alice were hanging out next to Becca’s car.”
As expected, the sedan takes a hard right onto the interstate exit and guns it, only this time, I don’t follow. Steeling my jaw, I pull off on the shoulder of the road and throw the car into park. Dragging a Zippo lighter from the inside of my jacket, I flip the top and flick the sparkwheel, then watch as the blue base lengthens into a bright white flame. I let it dance half a second before closing the lid.
“Back up,” Owen says hesitantly. “Dr. Brennan was there?”
Flipping the top again, I give the wheel another rough spin. “She was having dinner with afriend.” The word sounds as harsh as it tastes.
Fucking Jack Ledger. I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.
