“Hand it over, girl,” Vance commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “We’re done playing. You give me the box, and I’ll let you walk away. I don't care about you. But Marcus stays here.”
Maya’s eyes darted across the highway. The wrecked sedan was burning fiercely, flames licking up the frame, the tires melting into thick black puddles on the road. The overturned motorcycle was just five feet away, its massive gas tank fractured and steadily leaking high-octane fuel in a dark, spreading pool across the sloped asphalt.
Among the scattered debris from the motorcycle’s torn saddlebags, a red emergency flare stick had rolled near the pool of gasoline.
Maya looked at Vance. Then she looked at the gasoline.
She wasn't a scared little girl anymore. She was Marcus's daughter. And Marcus survived by doing whatever it took.
Maya didn't run. She didn't drop the box.
Instead, she took two quick, deliberate steps backward, planting her boots directly on the edge of the spreading puddle of gasoline. She bent her knees, ignoring the searing heat from the nearby fire, and scooped the red flare stick off the asphalt with her free hand.
Vance froze. His eyes widened.
Maya straightened up, holding the heavy steel lockbox in her left arm and the emergency flare in her right. She popped the plastic cap off the flare with her thumb.
“You want the paper?” Maya said, her voice dropping all its tremor, turning as hard and cold as the steel in her arms. “You want the ledgers?”
She raised the flare, the striker cap poised over the ignition surface.
Vance threw his hands up, taking a frantic step backward. “Whoa. Hey. Kid, hold on.”
“If I strike this, the puddle goes up,” Maya said, her eyes burning into Vance's. “If I drop this box into the fire, the bonds burn. The paper burns. The evidence burns. But maybe the feds can still read the ash. Maybe they can't. You want to take that bet?”
Vance’s face went completely pale. The three men behind him instinctively backed away, eyeing the pooling gasoline and the roaring car fire.
Maya held the striker steady. “You let him live, or it all burns right now.”
Chapter 3: The Highway Standoff
The Mojave wind howled, whipping the black smoke from the sedan directly across the highway, momentarily obscuring Vance and his men.
Maya didn't flinch. She kept her thumb pressed hard against the striker cap of the flare. The heavy steel lockbox dug painfully into her ribs, but she held it firmly over the dark, shimmering puddle of gasoline.
“You’re bluffing,” Vance said, waving a hand to clear the smoke from his face. His voice was louder now, strained. The absolute control he had projected moments ago was gone, replaced by raw, unmasked panic. “That box is locked tight. It won’t burn.”
“It’s old steel and cheap hinges,” Maya shouted back over the roar of the flames. She shifted her stance, letting the toe of her boot splash visibly in the fuel puddle. “And the fire inside that car is burning at over a thousand degrees. I pitch this box into the front seat, the metal warps. The paper inside turns to dust. And you go to prison forever.”