Stealing His Thunder (Masters of Adrenaline 1)

“Fuck.” He couldn’t lead him to the drop-off. That would cause a huge problem and potentially point to their buyer, which would destroy their reputation. He didn’t have time for this shit—he had to lose him fast.

What the hell did he want anyway? Was he trying to scare him?

Fox wasn’t easily intimidated, but he didn’t want to be forced into a turf war either. If these guys didn’t chill the fuck out, they’d pack up and leave town. A good home base wasn’t worth risking their lives over.

Just before an off-ramp, he switched lanes quickly, aiming to get off the highway before Marcel could follow. But the other car swerved, tires screeching, cutting off his chance. The engine roared as it pulled up alongside him.

Fox stole a look at the driver.

Cold eyes stared back at him. He’d recognize that long black hair and cruel twisted smirk anywhere. Marcel himself had left his lair to chase Fox down.

How fucking flattering.

Fox accelerated, glad he’d decided to take one of his fastest cars, but Marcel kept pace. Cars were panicking and moving out of their way as they sped past, the speed limit a distant memory. Every time Fox tried to move over, to get near an off-ramp, Marcel blocked him.

What the fuck did he want?

He looked over at him again through the passenger side window, planning to gesture crudely. The dull gleam of the handgun slowed time.

Atlas. Luke. Addison.

Sound cracked. Glass shattered and his shoulder exploded with pain. For a moment he saw nothing through the red haze.

Stay in control. Just drive.

He felt the car swerving, and he focused on seeing the road, slowing down and hoping Marcel would take off. Warmth poured down his arm under his jacket. His chest tightened in panic but self-preservation made him push it away and stay focused.

He had to get rid of Marcel before he shot at him again.

Fuck. He couldn’t believe Marcel had actually fucking shot him.

He glanced around. The sedan had outpaced him and was slowing. Apparently Marcel wasn’t finished.

When Marcel pulled up alongside him again, Fox let his anger take over. Enough was enough. He’d broken Carlos’s leg, destroyed the shop, stalked his girlfriend, and just fucking tried to kill him. He was done playing nice.

If Fox was going to die, Marcel was going with him.

He glared at him as he yanked the wheel to the right, smashing into the side of Marcel’s car. It drifted too far right to recover and crashed into the guard rail. Fox jerked the wheel left, narrowly avoiding the same fate.

His head started to spin. Shit. He was losing blood fast. Every move he made jarred his arm. In the rearview he could see that Marcel’s car had stayed against the rail. A car pulled up behind it and stopped, and he said a brief prayer that the dickhead wouldn’t shoot a Good Samaritan.

So tired. The world was coming at him dark and hazy around the edges. If he pulled over, the cops would find him. Investigations were bad. No hospital. They’d ask too many questions. There was a close-mouthed doctor they paid on the sly for emergencies but he had to make it home first. Keeping his eyes on the road, he groped for his phone with his wounded arm. He gritted his teeth at the near-blinding pain. Hand shaking, he patted the seat until he felt his phone under the broken glass. He dialed Atlas and put it on speaker.

“Where are you?” Atlas said when he picked up.

“Almost home. Call Dr. Lewis.”

Silence then, “What the fuck happened?”

Fox blinked a few times, trying to stay conscious. Four more minutes. He turned off the highway and onto the long stretch of empty road toward their house.

So cold. His teeth were chattering so hard it hurt his jaw.

“Marcel,” he said. “He shot me.” His arm felt like it had been torn off.

Atlas spat several curse words. “I’ll have Luke pick me up and tell Dr. Lewis head to the house now.”

“Atlas . . .” He trailed off, not sure what to say.