Me and the Devil

48.

The bikes devour the road. Gravel spits under the tires, engines screaming as we tear through the backroads. The air is thick with heat and gasoline. Barry rides ahead, Rafe close behind, and I cling to him my arms locked around his waist, my heart hammering against his back. He’s shaking. Not from fear. From whatever’s burning through him.

Then blue and red streaks. Sirens. Two cop cars rip past, the wind of them slapping my face.

And then, a flash of turquoise through the haze. Kiara’s car.

“Hey, that’s Kie’s car,” Rafe yells, already gunning it.

The world blurs. Trees whip by, sunlight flashing like camera shutters, until the shape of the garage rises up ahead. JJ’s garage. The Phantom sits under the half-open door, light cutting across it like it’s waiting to be taken. A piece of the past sitting right there.

Rafe kills the engine before the bike even stops. I hit the ground hard, stumbling, but he’s already moving. Barry’s close behind, gun drawn, swagger in his step.

“Hey there,” Rafe calls, voice too light, too calm. “What’s goin’ on, JJ? How you guys doing?”

“Well, well,” Barry cocks his gun and points it straight at JJ. “See, don’t think I forgot about me and you on the side of the road,” he sneers. “I’m here because I want my fuckin’ money.”

Rafe kicks at a bucket, sending it clattering across the floor. “You think this junker is going to save your precious John B,” he taunts.

“Really?” I cut in from behind the boat, stepping into the open. “She’s right there. She can hear you.”

It’s instinct, the line. The tone, the banter. But the moment it leaves my mouth, it cuts. JJ’s head jerks up. His face drains of color. He sees me standing there beside Rafe. Not with them. Not him.

Barry moves first. The gun cracks against JJ’s cheekbone with a sickening thwack, sharp enough to echo. JJ’s head snaps sideways, body folding before he hits the ground. The sound of him hitting concrete lands heavier than the gunshot that started everything.

Kiara screams and she runs for him, blind and desperate. Rafe catches her mid-sprint, arms locking around her waist, dragging her back.

“Where’s John B, Kie?” he shouts. His voice splinters on her name, a jagged mix of fear and fury.

She twists, nails clawing at his wrists, and then she slaps him hard across the face. “I know what you did!” she spits, trembling. “You shot Sheriff Peterkin. I saw it.”

It’s like watching a fault line split. His face contorts — grief, shame, rage — and then the dam breaks. His hands fly to her throat, not squeezing at first, just holding, but it’s enough to make her choke on his name.

“Don’t you ever say those fuckin’ words again.”

“Rafe!” I shout, grabbing his arm. His skin burns under my palm, muscles jerking.  He’s shaking not just with anger, but with the terror of being seen.

Barry’s still hitting JJ. Once. Twice. The room closes in, sound stacking on sound. Kiara choking, JJ gasping, Rafe’s breath sawing hot and high. I can’t hear my own name in my head.

Then a blur of motion. Pope bursts from the side, swinging a tire iron.  It slams into Rafe’s shoulder with a crack that rips a shout from my throat. He stumbles, dazed, hitting the floor hard.

Metal on flesh. Rage on fear. It stops being about the fight; it becomes punishment. Rafe’s arms curl up, trying to protect his face, but Pope keeps swinging, all the grief of potentially losing everything condensed into one motion.