She was a core conspirator of treason, and now she was in my car. How would they judge her? As much as I knew her innocence, no one else did. She hadn't yet realized the weight of that fact. I pitied her. She had unknowingly fallen into the pit of hell, and I was dragging her deeper with every passing second.
My mind raced, tangled in indecision. What was I supposed to do next?
The sharp crack of gunfire shattered my thoughts. Bullets slammed into the rear of my beautiful Easter, the sound reverberating through her frame. My heart sank. Devilin had caught up with me.
I glanced into the rearview mirror, and there they were—two modified American Ford trucks, their hulking forms emerging from the shadows like predators closing in on their prey.
I stole a second glance, and that's when I saw it. A tanker loomed behind the trucks, its massive silhouette unmistakable. The two Fords were no ordinary vehicles. They were custom-made monstrosities, bristling with menace. Mounted on each was a massive machine gun, perched on a tripod stand, manned by Devilin's brutal soldiers.
Chains of armor draped across their frames, glinting ominously under the faint light. The front bumpers were outfitted with long, sharp metal spikes, protruding like spears, ready to tear through anything—or anyone—in their path.
Devilin hadn't just come prepared. He had come to end this.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles white with tension. My mind screamed at me to act, but the weight of the situation pressed down on me like a vice.
I glanced at her again—my passenger, my partner in this chaos. She sat there, oblivious to the storm brewing behind us, her calmness almost unnerving. She didn't yet understand the danger she was in, the danger I had brought her into.
The roar of engines grew louder, the trucks closing the distance. My pulse quickened, fear clawing at the edges of my resolve.
This wasn't just a chase anymore. It was a war.
Doctor Ishaan's long, jet-black hair whipped sideways, nearly brushing against me in the left seat. For a fleeting moment, we forgot the chaos raging around us. My gaze locked onto hers—those ocean-deep eyes sparking with adrenaline, gripping onto something unseen but vital.
Wildfire of bullets ricocheted beneath my beautiful Easter, the violent symphony of warfare clashing with the rhythmic hum of her engine.
A sharp scream tore through the air—Doctor Ishaan, horrified, convinced we were about to topple over.
I barely flinched. Fear did not govern me. I had danced with danger too many times before, and this—this was nothing but child's play.
I tightened my grip on the wheel as Easter held her trajectory, defying gravity. She continued her drift, tilting dangerously, her front tire barely skimming the ground while her back right tire held a precarious angle—a perfect 45-degree defiance of doom.
The world blurred past us, the roar of pursuit growing louder.
We were far from safe, but for now—for this moment—Easter and I were untouchable.
The first American Ford truck collided with the cops' vehicles, metal shrieking as they were sent flying apart, scattering like broken toys across the pavement. A gap opened—unexpected, dangerous, but an opportunity nonetheless.
And in that moment, my beautiful Easter completed her flawless 90-degree drift turn.
She didn't just move—she commanded the asphalt, slicing through it with precision, gripping the road like a predator ready to pounce.
The chaos behind me roared—shouts, bullets, the screeching of tires struggling to recalibrate after the impact. The battlefield had shifted.
The opening was there. The only question now—would I take it?
The second truck slammed into the first, but the impact barely left a mark compared to the devastation they had unleashed on the police vehicles. The chaos behind me was relentless, but my focus remained on the person manning the machine gun, their sights locked on my beautiful Easter.
The only attacks that seemed to hold their course were the ones fired from the tanker's machine gun. Each bullet tore through the air with precision, forcing me to weave and dodge. It made me wonder—why hadn't they used the long pipe yet? The massive weapon had been tracking my movements, its mechanical chains grinding as it rotated, always a step behind my swift maneuvers.
The two American Ford trucks, distracted by their own collision, gave me a fleeting advantage. I pushed Easter harder, dodging the wildfire of bullets raining down from the tanker. But even as I maneuvered, a gnawing thought lingered—my beautiful Easter was bulletproof, yes, but no machine could withstand this kind of punishment forever.
And then it happened. The tanker's long pipe fired, releasing a deafening roar that shook the ground beneath us.
But Easter was quick—so quick. I had kept her in constant motion, anticipating the strike, and it paid off. The blast missed its mark, the shockwave rippling past us as I pushed her forward, refusing to let her falter.
The battlefield was chaotic, but Easter and I moved as one, her engine roaring with defiance. We weren't just surviving—we were fighting back.
"Is this the way we're going to die today?" Doctor Ishaan asked, her voice steadier now, no longer laced with the raw panic of a moment ago. She had calmed—but only slightly, the residual shock still lingering in her eyes.
So now it's we.
It struck me how quickly desperate times could entwine people together. A few hours ago, I had been nothing more than a criminal in her mind—perhaps even a madman, if her first impression had been honest. Yet now, somehow, all of that has shifted. Now it was we.
I let out a breath, gripping the wheel tighter, my thoughts colliding like bullets in the back of my mind.
"I don't know," I admitted, my grin uneven, unsure. "Anything is possible. You just have to have faith."
It was a hollow reassurance, because truthfully—I didn't have all the answers. Hell, I didn't have any answers. All I had was instinct. And right now, instinct was the only thing keeping us alive.