I glance around for other cars, then proceed to blow through the intersection without braking.
10:58
“In a quarter mile, merge onto Abbey Street.”
Driving with my knees, I jab a finger against my iPhone screen and dial Jaxon. It rings three times before kicking over to his voicemail — just as it has the past three times I tried to reach him.
The caller you are attempting to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone.
When it beeps, I lift the phone to my mouth.
“Jaxon, it’s Archer. I don’t know where you are or what the hell you did to piss Rico off… but you need to fix it. Now.” I swallow hard. “They have Ma and Pa. I’m going to try and negotiate, but I could really use some backup. So just—” I suck in a breath. “Just show up. For once in your fucking life, just be there when I need you.”
I rattle off the address before I disconnect. My eyes snag on the clock.
11:00
I’m not going to make it in time.
“Turn onto Cabot Street,” the GPS instructs. “Then, drive three-point-two miles.”
I take the turn on two wheels, relieved I’m nearly there. Not that I have any actual plan of action beyond that. I’m running on pure nerve, my mind circling madly around itself, like a snake devouring its own tail.
“Your destination is on the right in three miles.”
My finger hovers over the screen. It would be so simple to dial for help. Three little numbers.
9-1-1
Rico’s text message said not to call the cops; that he’d kill my parents if I did. I have no reason to doubt him. Every experience I’ve had with the Latin Kings has proven them to be merciless. They will stop at nothing to get what they want.
Nothing.
Which is why I know that, even if I do as he says, Rico won’t think twice about killing us all. His endgame is the only thing he cares about.
“After the next intersection, your destination is on the right,” the GPS intones in a robotic voice.
11:02
Before I can second guess myself, I close my eyes and dial. It connects almost instantly.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“There’s a hostage situation at 1318 Magnolia Street!” I yell into the speaker. “Please, send someone right away.”
“Okay, sir, I need you to calm down and give me some details,” a soothing voice instructs. “You said there are hostages, can you tell me how many? And how many suspects?”
“Two hostages. Two suspects.”
“And are there any weapons involved?”
“I think they have guns. I don’t know for sure. But they’re dangerous.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel. My eyes flicker back and forth between the road and the GPS. I don’t see the lights change as I fly into the intersection. “Please, hurr—”
The word never makes it past my lips. A 16-wheeler slams into the passenger side of my truck, crunching it in like a fist around a soda can. The phone sails out of my hand as the world flips upside down. Time seems to slow, suspended endlessly in the moment before impact.
There’s no way to brace against it.
Gravity forces the truck back to earth, landing on its roof. Glass explodes all around me, raining down in razor-sharp droplets. Airbags burst out with a hiss of compact air. Metal screeches, showering sparks across the pavement as the momentum carries the truck across the intersection. It rolls three times before it finally slams to a stop against a telephone pole — upside down, tires spinning in the air.