"Hold on!" Logan yelled, cuting the wheel hard to the left as we rounded a sharp, blind curve.
One of the bikers pulled up alongside the passenger side, his face twisted into a manic, mocking grin. He swung a heavy steel pipe, shattering the passenger-side window in a shower of glittering, lethal glass shards. I ducked, shielding my face with my arms as the cold mountain air rushed into the cab, carrying the scent of pine and gasoline.
Logan didn't hesitate. He slammed his foot on the brake for a split second, dropping the truck behind the biker, then rammed the side of the Tacoma into the motorcycle's rear wheel. The bike spun out of control, sliding sideways across the gravel before plunging over the edge of the ravine, the biker throwing himself off just in time to crash into the dirt.
But the victory was short-lived. A sudden, sharp crack echoed through the forest—the unmistakable sound of gunfire.
A bullet shattered the rear windshield, spraying glass across the back seat. Another round tore through the driver's side door, and I heard Logan give a sharp, guttural gasp of pain.
I looked over, my heart stopping. Logan was clutching his left shoulder, dark red blood quickly soaking through his olive green t-shirt, his face pale but tight with concentration as he tried to maintain control of the swaying truck.
"Logan!" I screamed.
"I'm fine!" he grunted through clenched teeth, though the sweat pouring down his forehead told a different story. "Take the wheel, Arthur! I can't hold the line!"
I scrambled over the center console, my boots tangling with the gear shift, and grabbed the steering wheel just as the truck began to drift toward the sheer edge of the cliff. The steering was heavy, fighting against my old, tired muscles as the truck bounded over the deep ruts in the road.
Up ahead, through the shattered windshield, I saw the massive, wrought-iron gates of the Blackwood Ridge estate. They were closed, guarded by two men holding assault rifles.
"We're not stopping!" Logan roared, reaching down with his good hand to press his foot onto my foot, slamming the accelerator to the floor.
The Tacoma screamed, the engine roaring in a final, desperate burst of power. We hit the iron gates at fifty miles an hour. The impact was deafening—a chaotic explosion of tearing metal, shattering glass, and the violent deployment of the airbags. The truck spun out of control, sliding sideways across the manicured lawn of the estate before crashing hard into a large stone fountain in the center of the driveway.
The world went black for a long, quiet moment, the only sound the hiss of steam rising from the crushed radiator and the distant, mocking laughter of men approaching the wreckage.