Shame, for them at least, it was also going to be their biggest mistake.
Benito nursed the SEAT along the unlit road, tracking the rear lights of the Astra. The road was littered with tight bends. Three miles in, it narrowed to a single lane, serviced by shallow bays for passing vehicles.
Counting them, Benito covered his face with the camouflage scarf around his neck and pulled his hood up. The fourth bay was tucked under a copse of trees, half hidden by overgrown hedgerows.
The Astra pulled in. Killed the engine and lights.
Benito gripped the SEAT’s steering wheel. Took a breath. Then he stomped on the accelerator and motored around the bend, roaring into view of the Astra’s occupants and blocking them into the bay.
Engine running, he seized the metal pipe stashed in the passenger footwell and leapt out of the car. His combat boots hit wet ground. He sprinted around the bonnet and straight into the path of the driver climbing out of the Astra.
Benito raised the pipe and hit the tall man in the gut, driving him to his knees before hitting him again in just the right place to knock him out without causing serious damage.
The man crumpled. Another took his place. Benito put him down, then faced off with the last man standing, a stocky dude Benito knew could punch like an incoming freight train.
They circled each other, bracing for impact, then the stocky dude stood down, dropping his fists.
He backtracked to the Astra and reached inside.
Benito waited, still armed and dangerous, though if the dude came back with a piece, it was over. Scaffold pole versus a fucking Glock? Yeah.Goodnight, Benito.
Fuck.He couldn’t let that happen. Who would take care of Gianna?The same people who’ll take care of her if the feds pick you up. Prison or death. Same fucking thing.Benito had seen road boys make it out of prison and turn their lives around, but they were better men than him.
The Astra’s passenger door slammed shut, the dull sound unnaturally loud with no traffic noise to drown it out.
Stocky Dude stepped closer to Benito, holding out a package. “It’s all there,” he said. “Find me in a few weeks with my cut?”
Benito nodded, stuffing the package into his front pocket without checking the contents. He pointed the bar at the ground. “On your knees.”
“All right, all right. Make it look good, but mind my teeth, yeah?”
Benito rolled his eyes, then advanced on the kneeling man without stopping to try and make sense of how his life had come to this. He swung with pinpoint precision, catching sensitive skin that would bleed a lot but leave the man conscious.
Stocky Dude slumped forwards, clutching his hands to the wound, smearing blood as it pulsed from the broken skin.
He nodded.
Benito nodded back and made his escape.
He dashed to the SEAT and slid behind the wheel, slamming the door as he gunned the engine and sped away, tyres squealing, dirt clouds misting the night air.
The Astra faded into the distance. Adrenaline coursing, Benito floored it to the main road, then slowed down to drive like a sensible old man in the opposite direction to anywhere he wanted to be.
The quiet stretch of the A5 had no traffic cameras. Benito followed it for an hour, then headed east to the coast, driving and driving and driving until he saw signs for the arse-crack town that could turn his financial fortunes around.
He parked by the beach. A dark van was already waiting for him. Two men got out. Benito steeled himself for the riskiest moment yet and left the sanctuary of his car behind.
The package changed hands. Then an envelope of rolled notes. No words. But Benito didn’t need validation. Just enough cash to—
To what? You want to be king again? For this shit to be your whole fucking life?
Nah. Fuck that. Benito wanted to be free, and the money in his pocket was just a fraction of what he needed to make that happen.
“A hundred Gs. That’s the price, in cash, product, or fucking blood. Else you rot here and spend the rest of your miserable life looking over your shoulder.”
Self-loathing boiled in Benito’s gut. He melted away from the meet and retrieved his car, pointing it back inland in a blind haze.
He was a half a world away before he took a breath. At least it felt that way. Ten miles from home, he skidded the SEAT to a stop in another country lane and killed the engine. With tired legs, he jumped from the car and moved to the boot. Inside, he found the jerry can of petrol stashed there and quickly doused the car interior.