Cinnamon & Nutmeg Volume 2: Where I Want To Be

12: Brian

I go for broke 

A lesson I can't afford

But for what it's worth

I'm ready to pay it

~Ludacris, USHER, & David Guetta "Rest of My Life"

The gunmetal gray Chevelle drifts out of line, crawling toward the Torino.

Not now, Dom... I cuss, loudly. Nobody to hear me object. The chick on the radio snaps, telling him to get back in line, the tension obvious in her voice. There's no room for error on this run, but a clean ride isn't our goal here. Not really. It's Braga, but it's Fenix, too.

The wall of the mountain ridge is getting way too close. The tunnels, whatever that is, wherever that is. Better be up here somewhere. And Dom's going to be a smear on the local landscape in a few moments. No room for error. Damn it, Dom. Make your move or get back in line already...

He can't pull up alongside the Torino, not running alone, not when Fenix has the other drivers pushing him along like the lead car in a NASCAR stock race. In the moment that I make the decision to blow our ace, expose our connection, and twist off behind the Chevelle... Dom falls back and eases into his spot. And they whip into the tunnel carved into the mountainside.

"Nice, bro. Nice way to strip ten years off my life. Buttmunch." I throw obscenities at his tail lights as I follow the vehicle in front of me. Through claustrophobia-inducing tunnels, tight S turns and weaves with less room for error than cattle cutes in a construction zone on the 101.

When we pull to a stop in the rendezvous location, my pulse is still hammering in my ears. One of Braga's henchmen orders us out of the cars, and chills drag up my spine. Hairs standing up everywhere. Something about this doesn't set well. I glance over at Dom, but the man is just sitting there. Only, I knows he's not. Stall, give him a chance to do whatever. He's up to something, attention focused inside the car even if his gaze hasn't dropped from staring at Fenix.

Pop the door and climb out before the muscle gets a happy trigger finger. Come on, Dom. Move that ass. I won't hesitate to save it if need be, but damn it if we blow this we might not get another shot.

Ha, shot. Like the one that took Letty out. Fucking Fenix. First-class shitbag, thinking he don't stink.

Obviously Dom is rubbing off on me. And not in the good way. Mind, gutter, out. Stay focused.

The twitchy drivers watch as the cocky bastards unload the drug cache from the trunk of each car. I focus my attention on the interaction between Dom and Fenix, as it swiftly escalates into a heated confrontation. They've got everyone's undivided attention, now. 

Drugs are finished getting loaded in the back of that H2. Nice wheels, especially for the terrain surrounding us. Desert scrub, badlands. No asphalt to be seen for miles. I scope out who's carrying what, twitch and fiddle my way within range of a grimy looking guy with an oversized magazine in his semi-automatic. That'll do real nice.

Then the Chevelle explodes.

I flinch – not exactly what I expected, but what the fuck – and tackle my chosen victim to the ground, slamming into his gun arm; the weapon goes skittering over the ground. I get my head up while elbowing my victim in the temple. As he goes limp, my gaze locking on Dom and Fenix. Gun, where's the man's gun...  All of Braga's men are armed; this shit's about to get heavy.