The cars entered the tunnel.
Darkness hit them like a fist to the face.
The headlights suddenly became vital — two strips of white light cutting the concrete walls of the tunnel, casting strange, elongated shadows behind them.
The sound of the cars multiplied inside the tunnel, the roar of the engines becoming a growl that settled in the ribcage and wouldn’t let you breathe.
John kept his foot on the gas.
Speed 180 — in a tunnel, in the dark, with walls just centimeters from the car’s mirrors on both sides.
Lloyd was watching through the rear window.
The headlights of the pursuing cars — six white, irritating points — gleamed in the darkness, closer than ever before.
And then — the chakram came.
Not one, not two — dozens.
Chakrams made of black light, sharp edges that cut through the white light of the headlamps and swallowed it.
They hovered in the tunnel’s darkness for a moment — then were launched.
The first struck the side mirror.
Glass sprayed everywhere.
The second hit the roof — the metal rang out, cracked, but didn’t tear.
The third reached the right tire.
A terrible sound: Whooshhhh — bursting.
The tire went flat.
The car was suddenly yanked to the right.
John gripped the steering wheel with both hands, the veins on his hands standing out, pressing to keep the car straight.
The shredded tire pounded beneath the car — thump-thump-thump — like a heart failing.
“John!” Lloyd shouted.
“I see it!”
John kept the car straight — not straight, upright.
The rear right tire was gone, only metal scraping against the asphalt, throwing sparks.
And the black cars — drew closer.
From the sides.
From both sides.
The black tendrils protruded from behind the agents’ shoulders and now stretched through the open windows toward Lloyd’s car.
The tips of the tendrils were like arrowheads — sharp, gleaming, piercing.
One of them struck the rear door and passed through the metal.
A round, hot hole, with melted edges.
Lloyd pulled back.
Toward John.
“How far to the exit?”
John fixed his gaze ahead.
The end of the tunnel — a white point slowly growing larger.
Close.
A few seconds.
“Ten seconds!”
The second tendril hit the car — this time the back seat.
The fabric tore, the foam beneath exposed.
The cars burst out of the tunnel.
Sunlight — real light — struck their faces.
Lloyd blinked.
His eyes went blind for a moment.
And from above — a large shadow, large wheels, an armored, rugged body — HMMWV, Humvee.
It leaped onto the road, right in front of the pursuing cars.
John shouted: “A military vehicle?!”
The sound of iron crashing into iron — the military vehicle slammed into the car on the left.
The door of the pursuing car caved in, the windows shattered, and the car went off the road.
It spun several times on the sand and fell over the edge of the cliff.
The sound of impact on rock — falling, falling, then — silence.
Inside the military vehicle — a man in a black shirt, military pants, and thick boots.
His bulletproof vest was on the seat beside him, he wasn’t wearing it.
Curly, thick black hair, a rugged face but with a smile that filled his entire face.
Jonathan Green.
He pulled his vehicle alongside Lloyd’s car.
He rolled down the window.
In a voice somewhere between laughter and a shout, he said:
“Get in my car!”
John glanced at Lloyd.
Lloyd nodded — short, firm.
John grabbed Lloyd.
Under his arms.
Tight.
Their own car was still moving — the shredded tire was sparking on the asphalt — and John brought himself and Lloyd to the door of the military vehicle.
Jonathan opened the door.
“Jump!”
Lloyd nearly slipped — his new military boots slid on the shattered glass — John quickly reached out and grabbed Lloyd’s wrist.
He pulled.
Lloyd leaped into the car, onto the back seat.
John jumped in too.
The door slammed shut.
Jonathan pressed his foot on the gas.
The military vehicle roared and leaped forward.
And the agents — on the roof.
One of them jumped from the pursuing car and landed on the roof of Jonathan’s vehicle.
His tendrils burst from behind his shoulders and locked into the metal of the roof.
A second from the other side.
A third from the front, onto the hood.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the roof — thud, thud, thud.
Lloyd looked at Jonathan.
He was panting, but his voice was calm — cold, emotionless.
“Who are you?”
Jonathan laughed.
A loud laugh, genuine, as if he were sitting in a park eating ice cream, not in a car being attacked from all sides by tendriled creatures.
“Gary sent me!”
John raised an eyebrow.
He fixed his gaze on Lloyd.
Then on Jonathan.
“Gary? But he didn’t tell us anything.”
Jonathan shrugged.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly and took a sharp curve — the car spun, the tires screamed.
“He forgets… he’s my cousin!”
Lloyd stared at him for a few seconds.
He read Jonathan’s face — the firm jawline, the sharp eyes that were always smiling even when they weren’t, the curly hair dancing in the car’s wind.
“Now I see why you’re so weird.”
Jonathan laughed.
Louder.
“I’ll take that as a compliment! Now…” His voice got more serious.
“Hold on tight to each other. We’re about to go fast.”
John grabbed Lloyd by the shoulder.
Lloyd hooked his hand onto the front seat.
A sound from above — a tendril passed through the roof.
The metal tore like paper.
Lloyd fixed his gaze on the roof.
A hole — small, round, dark.
“Are you aware there are several tendriled creatures on your car?”
Without looking, Jonathan shrugged. Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
“This car isn’t mine. I stole it from the FBI — I mean, borrowed it.” A devilish smile.
“If they don’t know — it counts as theft. Doesn’t matter.”
The tendrils passed through the roof — two, three, four.
The driver’s side window shattered.
Glass sprayed onto Jonathan’s shoulder.
A tendril snaked through the broken window — went toward Jonathan’s throat.
John moved his hand to his waist — the katana.
But Jonathan raised his hand: “Don’t! It’s too cramped!”
The tendril reached the throat.
Coiled around the neck.
Jonathan was choking — his face turned red — his eyes watered — but he didn’t take his hands off the steering wheel.
Lloyd grabbed the tendril.
His fingers closed around it.
He squeezed hard.
Ice — from the palm of his hand — from his fingers — spread into the tendril.
The tendril turned white.
It cracked.
And with Lloyd’s fist — it shattered.
The pieces of tendril fell onto Lloyd’s legs and melted.
The smell of sulfur and something burned.
Jonathan coughed and breathed.
He put his hand on his throat — it was scratched, not deep.
His voice was wounded, but the laugh was still in it.
“I nearly… saw the Angel of Death.”
John opened the door.
The car was doing 180 on the speedometer — the wind slammed in with force, whipping Lloyd’s hair.
John went onto the roof.
He grabbed the edge of the roof firmly with one hand — the muscles of his arm tensed beneath his shirt.
His other hand — he drew the katana.
With his mouth.
The blade came out of the scabbard — his teeth rang against the cold metal.
He spun it.
Shifted his hand.
The katana was now in his right hand.
Fire coiled around the blade.
Fast.
As if it had been thirsty and had finally found water.
The agents on the roof — three of them.
They looked at John.
Their white masks gleamed in the sunlight.
Their tendrils had unfurled from behind their shoulders, like wings, like arms.
None of them spoke.
John struck.
The first — from shoulder to waist.
The blade passed through the black suit, through flesh, through bone — the body split in two and fell off both sides of the roof.
The second — a blow from above, from skull to jaw.
The blade didn’t get stuck, it cut free.
The third — didn’t come.
He fled.
A leap to the car behind.
John jumped down, panting.
He sat in the seat.
His breaths were fast, his forehead wet with sweat.
He didn’t sheathe the sword.
He laid it on his lap.
Lloyd said to Jonathan: “Can you do a J-turn? I have a plan.”
Jonathan, without question, without hesitation, did it.
He pulled the handbrake — pressure — the car spun 180 degrees, the tires screamed and white smoke rose from beneath them.
For a moment, the car stopped — in the middle of the road, facing the pursuers.
Then — first gear, gas, and the car leaped toward them.
Lloyd opened the window.
He extended his hand out.
Palm — vapor — ice — it settled on the windows of the pursuing cars.
On the windshield wipers, on the cameras, on the engines.
The engines choked.
One by one.
The cars shuddered and died — in the middle of the road.
Jonathan spun again.
Another 180 degrees.
The tires screamed again — this time longer.
More smoke.
The car straightened out, returning to its original path.
John looked at Jonathan.
He nodded.
“Lloyd… Jonathan… thank you.”
Jonathan was about to answer when another sound cut everything off.
Whoooosh — rotor blades.
Helicopter.
Lloyd raised his head.
“Wait… I hear a helicopter.”
John stuck his head out the window.
The sky — two black dots.
Getting bigger.
Getting closer.
Missiles.
Two of them.
They detached from under the helicopters’ wings and came down.
A white line of smoke trailed behind them.
John shouted.
His voice was lost in the wind but echoed inside the car:
“Missiles incoming!”
Jonathan turned the steering wheel.
The car leaped left — the missile passed by the driver’s door and struck the mountain behind them.
Fire — rock — shrapnel — large stones rolled down from the heights and spilled onto the road.
The second missile — Jonathan spun again; the car leaped right — the missile hit the side of the road, a few meters away — the explosion shook the car — more stones broke loose from the mountain.
Jonathan gripped the steering wheel tightly.
He navigated through the rocks — this way, that way, weaving, the tires sometimes slipping, then gripping again.
A large rock — broke loose from above.
It fell.
Right onto the hood.
The car jumped.
Boom — boom — boom — it flipped three times.
Lloyd locked his hand onto the front seat.
John slammed against the side window — his forehead was wounded.
Jonathan didn’t let go of the steering wheel — even when the car flipped and the glass shattered and the metal screamed and compressed — he held the steering wheel.
The car straightened.
On all four wheels — but the hood was crushed, steam rising from underneath, the windshield cracked.
Everyone was wounded.
John’s forehead was split open and blood was running into his eye.
Lloyd’s head was wounded — near the temple, from impacting the glass.
Blood was smeared across his pale face, making him look older.
Jonathan laughed.
Exhausted, panting, but he laughed.
“This is truly awesome!”
Lloyd placed his hand on his wounded head.
Blood dripped between his fingers.
In a voice with nothing behind it — no pain, no fear, no exhaustion — he said:
“Forget awesome. Keep your eyes on the road.”
Ahead — a bridge.
The only way across the ravine.
And the helicopters — they fired missiles.
At the bridge’s supports.
A roar — metal twisted — concrete cracked — the bridge collapsed.
Large pieces fell from the heights and vanished into the ravine.
Only a few meters of the bridge remained — bent iron and concrete still clinging together.
Lloyd stared.
There was no bridge.
Only the bottom of the ravine — hundreds of meters below.
“What do we do now?”
Jonathan increased the speed.
180, 190, 200.
The speedometer needle was shaking.
The sound of the engine was no longer a roar — it was a scream.
Lloyd shouted: “Can an HMMWV Humvee even reach two hundred kilometers?!” Jonathan: “This is no ordinary vehicle!”
Lloyd: “Fine! But how are you going to cross the bridge?!”
Jonathan fixed his gaze ahead.
On the edge of the precipice.
On the road that was no longer there.
He smiled — a smile with madness in it, and certainty.
“Just watch…”
The car reached the edge of the precipice.
Jonathan pressed the red button — on the dashboard, beneath the black plastic.
The rocket — beneath the car — ignited.
Fire and pressure and a sound that shook the metal — and the car jumped.
Lloyd looked down.
The ravine — black, deep, with sharp rocks at the bottom.
To the other side — the distance was too great.
Impossible for a car.
Impossible for anything.
But the rocket pushed it.
More.
More.
Until perhaps it would reach.
The car landed.
On crushed concrete and bent iron — the front right wheel hit first — the suspension compressed — metal and metal — then the rear wheel — the car shuddered — and again — it moved.
Over those few meters of bridge.
On the edge of destruction.
John went onto the roof.
The door was open — the car was shaking — every second held the possibility of falling — but John kept his balance.
The katana came out — the scabbard fell onto the back seat.
Fire gathered around the blade.
Faster than ever before.
As if it knew this might be the last time.
He drew the sword.
From left to right.
Fire energy detached from the blade — a wave of orange and red and white flames — and struck both helicopters.
Both.
Simultaneously.
Explosion.
The sky for a moment turned the color of daylight — then black smoke — then falling — the helicopters spun and went down into the ravine and no sound came, because they were too far away.
John jumped down.
Into the seat.
Closed the door.
His breath was fast.
His hand trembled on the sword.
Lloyd stuck his head out the window.
He looked up.
The sky — blue, silent, helicopter-free.
He sat back.
His voice was hoarse.
From the smoke, from shouting, from something else.
“I think… my guts are about to spill out.”
He went to the back of the car.
Leaned against the seat.
Closed his eyes.
Didn’t close them.
Left them open.
Stared at the ceiling.
Jonathan released the steering wheel.
He looked at his wounded hands.
Then he laughed — a loud, free, exhausted laugh.
“That was really awesome! I want more adventures like this!”
Without lifting his gaze from the ceiling, Lloyd said:
“But I don’t.”
Jonathan looked at John.
John was wiping the wound on his forehead with the back of his hand.
Jonathan said:
“Man — you were like Spider-Man. Up there, with the sword, in the wind…” His gaze went to Lloyd.
“…and that little boy was like Lucius Best!”
Lloyd blinked.
He fixed his gaze on Jonathan.
His face showed nothing — but at the bottom of his cold, emotionless eyes was something like a question.
Not surprise — a question.
Who was Lucius Best?
But he didn’t ask.
He just turned back to the ceiling.
To the crushed, cracked, holed ceiling.
To the sky visible through the metal.
Blue.
Silent.
Indifferent.
The car drove down the road.
There were no more pursuers.
No more helicopters.
Only the road and the desert and mountains that looked purple in the distance.
And Lloyd’s blood — on the black glove.
Cold.
Sticky.
Like ice melting in a fist.
To be continued…