Page 176 of Damián

Fernanda points to the left. “There’s a commercial strip one block away.”

“Take me there.”

Fernanda guides us to a commercial avenue lined with shops and outdoor cafes. Because it’s so late, ninety percent of the street is empty, but down the block, there is a seafood restaurant hosting a private party.

I see a young valet guy hopping into a sports car and driving off to park it, leaving the box of keys open and completely unattended.

“This way,” I yell, ushering the family toward the parking lot.

I sprint up to the valet podium, my eyes searching the rows for the most boring keys, since those models won’t have GPS to track us.

Bingo!

I grab the key to an old Honda Civic and start clicking the unlock button as we move through the rows of parked cars.

Click…

Come on…

Click…

Click…

BEEP! BEEP!

I turn and see an old red Honda Civic flashing its lights.

Got you.

We scramble into the car. Fernanda and Carlitos get into the back seat, while María dives into the front passenger seat.

“They are close, so lower your bodies as much as you can,” I tell them, my hands shaking uncontrollably against the steering wheel as I look into the rearview mirror.

I shift the car into drive, slowly easing out of the parking space, trying with everything I have to look like just another random dude exiting a restaurant.

We are halfway to the exit lane when a tattooed man steps right into the middle of the driveway, his eyes locking onto mine. I see the moment he recognizes me. His face twists into a snarl, and he raises his pistol, aiming it straight through the glass.

No… Not happening.

“Hold on!” I scream, and I slam my foot all the way down onto the gas pedal.

CLANK!

CLASH!

Bullets hit the car and tear through the upper corner of the windshield, showering glass over the dashboard.

The car hits the man at twenty miles per hour. His body flies into the air, landing on the hood, before rolling over the roof and crashing to the asphalt behind us.

I twist the steering wheel, tearing out of the parking lot and blowing right through a red light, finally leaving Rafael’s men far behind us.

We drive in silence for three full blocks before I can finally find my voice.

“Is everyone safe?” I ask, my eyes darting between the shattered windshield and the mirrors.

“Yes.” María sits straight and buckles up.

“We’re okay, we’re okay,” Fernanda repeats from the back, her arms wrapped around Carlitos.