Sofia "Agent" Rios carefully inhaled, hands resting on the steering wheel. The car hummed as she drove down the streets of L.A, still full of life at this time of night. City lights filtered over the leather interior as they drove under buildings and past bustling businesses. Her eyes slid from the road to the rearview mirror, where she met the gazes of two other women. Rifles rested in their laps.

At her side, a woman named Nikita sat, tapping her pistol against her leg lazily. Her eyes, though half-lidded as if she were tired, were focused on the car ahead of them. Wilford Warfstache's car. Like the rest of them, she was dressed in all black, accented by gun holsters and pockets. Eyeliner sharpened her monolids, and a curtain of black bangs graced her lashes.

One of the girls in the back blew a pink bubblegum and leaned forward, flicking on the radio. The bubble popped, and she went back to chewing, bopping her head to the beat that filled the car. 'Bubblegum Bitch' by Mariana and The Diamonds.

Every tick of the drums filled Rios' pulse, and she inwardly grimaced, hands tightening over the wheel. Next to her, Nikita made a face, her eye twitching. Even as she spoke, her gaze never broke from the car in their pursuit.

"Cindy," she said. "This is a serious job."

Cindy blew another bubble, twirling her pigtails. It popped. "Yeah?" she sassed. "Doesn't mean we can't have fun."

Rios eyed the passenger side, and the woman flicked off the radio. Cindy made a noise of protest.

"Niki!" she whined.

Nikita glared at the car ahead of them. "We need to focus," she said firmly.

"Music helps me focus."

Nikita shifted in her seat and flicked her gun at the window. "They're turning right," she said. "Go straight."

Rios' brows furrowed. "What? But—"

"The tracker," chimed the woman next to Cindy. "Remember?"

Rios watched as Warfstache turned right, and she continued straight, unease twisting her insides. She didn't like how heavily they relied on this technology. No. She didn't like how they relied on Dark Edwards. For all they knew, they could be following a decoy.

But then again, thought Rios as she turned right on a different street, mirroring Warfstache's path, we're here to show them the consequences.

"Odetta," said Rios, addressing the woman beside Cindy. She recognized her from the precinct—another mole planted by Celine. "Do you have the visuals on them?"

Odetta nodded, her dark skin illuminated by the city lights. She handed her phone to Nikita, who held it in the middle for everyone to see. Two dots tracked across a grid of L.A.

"The blue one is us," said Odetta. "The red one is Warfstache."

"We should just crash into them," said Cindy, another bubble popping at her lips. "I mean, how would they expect that?"

Rios sighed. "Tell me again why Larose assigned you with us?"

"She's trigger happy," snarled Nikita. "Which, don't get me wrong, I like in a girl, but not when I'm on the same field—"

"Awe, you like me," cooed Cindy.

"No," said Nikita, glaring over her shoulder. "You're a lunatic."

Cindy dramatically swooned. "Ahhh," she sighed, batting her lashes. "She even complimented me."

"Girls," said Odetta. "Focus. Nikita, eyes on the road. Cindy, quiet."

Nikita obeyed, turning back to the front. Cindy pouted and blew another bubble, popping it with an acrylic nail.

"Can we have music? Pretty please?" said Cindy. "At least give me Doja Cat."

"Fine," growled Nikita, punching in the music. "But just one song."

The heavy beat of a pop song rocked the car, and Rios evenly breathed out, eyes on both the road and the tracker. Warfstache turned right again, and she followed from a street away.

"You know," said Rios, "Blank's skills would be really useful right now."

Nikita gave a sharp huff, teeth flashing in a patronizing smile. Cindy belted out lyrics in the backseat. "Well," said Nikita, "apparently Larose has other uses for him at the moment." She glanced over and met Rios' eyes.

"I think that bodyguard dies tonight, and she's getting ready for a show."

———

Blank carefully inhaled, his hands folded behind his back as he gazed down at the city through the walls of glass. It was dark in the penthouse, save for a single lamp perched on a wooden crate. The warm light spilled onto a couch and a body that was slipping out of its unconscious state.

Plastic tarp rustled, and Blank exhaled, pulling his eyes away from the city lights. In the middle of the room, Mark stirred, a groan leaving his lips.

His fingers itched to hurt him—to leave marks on his canvas again—but tonight wasn't for violence. Tonight was to stall.

And while Blank was never too strong with communication, tonight was to twist Mark's perception.

Blank pulled out his phone, heels clicking as he walked towards the couch. He brought up the candid photo of Dark and Wil and stood before the bodyguard, silent, waiting for him to wake up.

———

"Well?" breathed Dark, energy itching under his skin. With the gun in his lap, it was hard to keep still. It kept reminding him of the possible attack. "We've been driving for an hour now. Do you think we're safe?"

"I haven't seen anything suspicious," said Host, focusing on the road from all angles—ahead, on the sides, through the rearview mirror. "We're never safe, but we could be in the clear."

"The longer we stay in one place," said Wilford, "the more dangerous it is."

"I can drive all night if you need me to, boss," said Jim, fueled by the rock songs on the radio. "I'm still awake."

"I appreciate it, kiddo," said Wilford, "but we can't keep running forever."

Dark huffed, and he leaned back in his seat, gazing out the window. His fingers drummed against his gun, the weapon feeling out of place under his touch. "How are the articles?" he asked suddenly. "Are more people believing them?"

"Yeah, actually," said Jim, smiling. He rolled up to a red light and stopped, surrounded by cars. The light filled the car, highlighting their faces. "The police actually put out a statement confirming them. Something to do with the FBI."

A black sedan came up on their left, slowing. They didn't notice it.

"No way," said Wilford, twirling his gun. "Detective Abe wouldn't believe that shit in a million years."

The sedan stopped in their blind spot.

"Madam Dumont said something about that," said Dark. "She told the FBI the truth before the articles came out."

"Well," said Wilford, shrugging, "it's a step in the right direction." He smiled at Dark. "I'll never be in the clear, but you'd be back in business."

Dark forced a smile at that. During his time with Wilford, he'd started to rethink what business would look like for him. It wouldn't be anything like before, he knew that.

"About that..." said Dark.

The light turned green, and the cars in front of them slid away. The black sedan on their left crawled forward, and as they rolled up, the windows slid down, metal flashing from within.

Guns.

Host spotted the car, but it was too late.

"GET DOWN!"

His warning was swallowed by the flurry of gunshots.

———

Wilma fired the last of her rounds into the target, chest heaving from the scenario she'd dreamed up. The target, her brother. Every bullet tearing a hole through his chest, his torso, his limbs. She would leave his head for last—let him bleed out on the unforgiving ground before she stood over him, glaring down the sights.

'This is what it felt like,' she would say, 'when you left me.'

Her hand shook over her pistol, and she lowered it onto the table, the metal still hot and smoking.

Heels clicked from behind her, and she whirled around, curls flaring around her face. Celine met her gaze with a dangerous smile, her eyes alight the way they did when things went her way.

"It's not safe to disregard protection," said Celine, mentioning Wilma's lack of earplugs and safety glasses. The woman rolled her eyes and huffed.

"No use practicing with them," she said, turning back to her gun. She unclipped the magazine and reloaded it, hands practiced but not skilled. "I only plan to use this one more time, and that's on my brother. After that," she said, setting the gun in its case, "I'm done."

Celine walked closer, the heat of her presence ghosting at Wilma's back. In the quiet of the shooting range, she could hear her steady breaths. The shift of her black dress.

Wilma grabbed her gun case and turned around, facing Celine. Her black lips curled up, and her eyes went half-lidded. Now that they were so close, Wilma could feel the energy brimming from her—excited and off-kilter. Curiosity blossomed in her chest, and only two words satisfied the feeling. Made curiosity shift from disbelief, to shock, to the same energy Celine radiated.

"It's time," said Celine.

Wilma's lips parted, and she followed Celine out of the range with wide eyes, breathless.

It's time, looped the words, over and over, in her head.

It's time. After all this waiting, all this planning...

It's time.

It's time.

———

Screams painted the street, and people fled for cover.

"FUCK!" cried Jim, clutching his arm. "I-I've been hit!"

Every window in the car shattered, spraying them with glass. Bullets poured into the car, the gunshots exploding through the street.

"DRIVE!" yelled Wilford, ducking. "Just slam the—!"

Jim stomped on the gas, and the tires screamed, lurching the car forward. Their bodies lurched with the force, and Jim cried out in pain, manning the car with one arm. Blood poured from his bicep.

"You can do it, Jim," said Wilford, looking out the backseat. "Host! Think of someplace to crash. Fast."

Dark gasped for air, and he clutched his chest, body full of adrenaline. The attack was like a blur; a blast of sensations that stunned him. He had dropped his gun from the shock, its metal surface now sliding along the floor.

Amidst the chaos, the black sedan cut right, disappearing behind buildings.

"Shit," cursed Wilford, wind whipping his hair. "I lost them."

Buildings flitted by them. At every intersection, they caught a glimpse of the other road. Once, twice, no sedan. The third time, the car came into view, matching their speed.

"Jim," said Wilford, clutching onto the seats. "Can you U-turn?"

"What?" panted Jim. "In this traffic—"

"Can you?"

Jim weaved in and out of cars, ignoring the blaring honks of protest. He ran a red light. Sirens filled the air, and blue and red painted the streets.

"Shit, I-I dunno!" yelled Jim. "Not like this!"

Jim yanked the wheel, and the car cut right, tire clipping over the sidewalk. People screamed and veered out of the way.

Host fumbled with a map on his phone. "I can't think of anywhere," he said, fingers bloody.

A car screeched behind them, and Dark whipped towards the sound, eyes widening. His heart lurched in his throat.

The black sedan.

"They're back!" he shouted, grabbing his gun.

"Goddamn it," cursed Wilford, aiming at their attacker. "I swear to god, they messed up another one of my cars—"

A gun peered out of the sedan, and Wilford pulled the trigger just as Jim yanked the wheel, throwing his body to the side. Miss. The gunshot made people flee around them, dissolving into chaos.

"We need to find cover," spat Wilford. "Jim, are you alright?"

"Y-yeah," said Jim, speeding down the road. "Hangin' in there."

The black sedan appeared again, but instead of tailing them, it raced down the road, disappearing behind buildings again.

"Jesus," said Host, watching the car fly by. "Who's controlling that thing? I can't sense any pattern."

———

"Turn right!" yelled Cindy over the music, laughing. She clutched her M16 to her chest, the gun still hot from firing. "Oh wait—wait, left! Now!"

"Jesucristo," cursed Rios in Spanish, yanking the wheel. "Aren't you supposed to give the directions, Odetta?"

"Not for this part!" she yelled, keeping her rifle pointed out the window. Wind roared into the vehicle, whooshing through their hair. "Blank said Cindy's perfect to throw them off!"

"Left!" sang Cindy.

Rios growled, throwing the car aside. Their bodies slid and slammed back and forth. "Cindy!" she yelled. "Could you warn me ahead of time? Please?!"

Nikita eyed the tracker, and she rolled down the window, pulling out her pistol. In seconds, the car sped forward while Warfstache came from the right, heading right towards them.

"Cindy!" cried Rios.

Time slowed, and Nikita and Cindy brought up their guns, aiming at the car. Gunshots exploded as they fired at the vehicle, piercing metal and, hopefully, passengers.

The car skidded, and just as they sped away, the crash unfolded beautifully. The echo of gunshots, aching in the air, as Warfstache's car slammed the side of another car, spinning them both out of control. Tires screeched, metal grinded, sparks flew.

Cindy stuck her head out the window and watched it play out, the chaos feeding the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Cries filled the city, and Warfstache's car was left there, completely totaled, smoking and steaming and so dark inside it looked dead.

Time sped up.

"WOOHOO!" cried Cindy, throwing her arms in the air. The wind roared past her ears, her hair, and she ducked back into the car with a grin. It was silent inside, and when she was done gloating, she met the other's gazes, finding them all on her.

"Cindy..." said Rios, out of breath. Murder flashed in her eyes. "Did you plan that this whole time?"

"Course!" she laughed. "Well, I improvised here and there—course—but—"

Rios pulled into an alleyway and slammed the breaks, hair flying her face. Sirens swelled in the air as she whirled around in her seat, looking at Cindy hysterically.

"A crash was too risky!" she shouted, heart hammering in her chest. "We need those two alive! ALIVE!" She heaved for breath, waving her arms. "Did you see that crash? They're as good as dead, you—you idiot!"

She clutched at her hair, and Cindy's peppiness fell, her body sinking into the seat.

"Oh..."

An ambulance flew past, sirens ablaze, and Odetta pointed at the phone on the console. A heavy weight fell over the car.

"Rios..." she breathed. "The tracker's offline."

———

The world was a blur of chaos, bubbles of noise, and burning, searing pain.

Dark came to with a gasp, his lungs filling with smoke. Pain dizzied his senses, and he rolled over, clutching himself. Something hot and wet met his fingers, and he pulled them away, blinking away blurriness.

His vision split over the image of blood.

Sirens swelled around them. Red and blue painted the streets.

His heart lurched.

Dark fumbled in his seat, and he looked through the broken windows, realizing how terrible a state they were in. The other car was fine—the entire side of it scratched up—but their car was destroyed, full of shattered glass and bullets.

"Wil?" he coughed, glancing around. The sirens grew louder. The colors closer.

Glass crunched, and a hand grabbed his collar, pulling him up. Dark braced a hand on the door, and pain lit up his arm. When he tore his hand away, his palm was cut open, bleeding profusely.

He whipped around to meet Wilford's eyes.

Thank God, he thought, breathing hard. He collapsed against his chest, and the muffle of his shouting met his ears.

Footsteps stumbled over, and Dark glanced up to find Jim, clutching his arm.

But no Host.

The crash replayed behind Dark's eyes, a blur of noise and pain and chaos. The streak of the opposing car, careening against them. Their bodies slamming against metal and broken glass.

Host was on the side they were hit.

Dark grounded himself, swaying on his feet, and stared at Wilford, whose face was strewn with worry.

Jim limped over, holding onto Dark, and together, they kept each other up, heaving for breath. The rest happened in a blur. Wilford rushed around the car and threw the passenger door open, shaking Host's shoulders. The sirens began to whine closer, and an ambulance filled the street, skidding to a stop.

Paramedics rushed out as Wilford pulled Host's body from the car, dragging him away from the scene. He was limp—feet dragging—but when they came closer, Dark heard the strain of Host's breathing.

Still alive.

"Go, go, go," hissed Wilford, leading them away from the stabbing lights and the rushing paramedics. The four of them dipped into the shadows, away from sight, just as the EMTs reached their totaled car.

"Host," said Wilford as they limped down the street, farther and farther away from the sirens. "Stay with me, okay? Are you awake, bully?"

Host groaned, his eye out of focus. His eyepatch hung at his neck, revealing the empty socket that was once his other eye. A glass shard wedged near it, blood dripping down his face.

Jim held onto Dark, shaking. He clearly didn't react well to pain. And though Dark did, he was shaking, too. The chase, the adrenaline, the crash... all of it was too much.

He didn't know how Wilford kept going.

"We need a taxi," said Wilford, wincing when he tried to signal one. He couldn't raise his arm. Dark didn't notice it at first, but now that he was regaining some of his senses back, he saw the blood. A cut, running along his cheek. A dark stain at his hip. He noticed then that his shoulder was offset. Dislocated.

Dark rose his arm and waved down the road, wincing at the pain in his ribs. One quick glance at them all, and they were a wreck.

"No one's gonna take us like this," he said, glancing at Wil. The mafia boss shook his head.

"Guns do the trick just fine," he said.

A taxi rolled up minutes later, just as a group of police officers rounded the corner. Dark coaxed Jim inside, and Wilford followed after, dragging Host with him. Just as Dark dashed in the front seat and shut the door, the officers ran down the sidewalk, searching for them.

The taxi driver took one look at them, and his eyes filled with worry. Then he met eyes with Wilford, who looked terrifying with that look on his face. It made Dark shudder with his own pale version of fear.

The driver gulped. "W-where to, sirs?"

Wilford was silent for a moment, and Dark pulled out Celine's phone from his pocket, which was now cracked all over. The sight of it—dead and very likely unable to track—filled him with both dread and an opportunity.

"My house," said Dark, and before Wilford could protest, Dark gave the driver his address.

The tracker was destroyed from the crash. Along with his connection to Celine.

It terrified every part of him, the feeling settling deep into his bones. Mark's life was now on the line. It wasn't a matter of if he would be killed but when.

But for now, at least, he knew they wouldn't be followed. For now, he thought—as he glanced over his shoulder and met the sight of Wil, Host, and Jim in the backseat—they were safe.

He knew that feeling wouldn't last for long, either.

...

What are your thoughts? >:)))

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo