Marked Masters by Ritter Ames Read Free Book Online

grimace and hit the accelerator as if we
were in a Ferrari. In fact, as I scrabbled to choke the door handle
in a death grip, he even said, "God, I wish I had a Ferrari right
now!"
    "I take it they were fresh out at the rental
counter," I yelled back.
    "Actually, no. I thought it would look too
retro- Miami Vice and Michael Mann, and chose classy instead.
Thought you'd prefer that." He kept his face forward the entire
time he spoke. No smirk, no wink. But I watched a nerve twitch one
time at his temple.
    I wasn't sure how to respond. How I even
wanted to try to respond. So I used my left hand to dig around in
my purse to find my smartphone instead.
    I'd always loved visiting Miami when
Grandfather was alive, but as a child I spent more time in Coral
Gables than South Beach. If my father came along, he spent most of
his time at one of the high-roller jai-alai establishments. He
dragged me inside once when I was twelve or thirteen, paying
someone to let me slip past the rules, and I spent a bored
afternoon stealing sips of his beer while he bet on a ball that
would probably kill him if the thundering sphere hit him. Instead,
it hit his wallet, and we left when he ran out of cash. Miami
became all work once I reached adulthood, and I'd spend fly-in
weekends scrambling to attend one art extravaganza or another.
    Regardless of the number of times I'd
visited, I didn't usually drive in Miami. Rather, I was picked up
and delivered wherever I needed to go. So now, with the
always-changing cityscape and Jack's current Le Mans maneuvers, I
was quickly and hopelessly lost. I had just brought up my phone's
street map app when Jack slammed on the brakes and jigged right.
The phone rocketed out of my hands and onto the floorboard. I'd
find it later. I wasn't letting go of the door for anything.
    I didn't bother asking Jack if he had a
plan. The set of his jaw said he did—even if he didn't.
    As fast as our real-time views changed, my
screen app probably couldn't have kept up anyway. I felt like I was
in an old episode of Miami Vice or simmed-out in Grand
Theft Auto, except for the fact that if either were true, we
really would have been in a cherry-red Ferrari.
    Buildings were a blur, and I heard sirens in
the distance. Things were coming to a head. At one opportunity,
Jack moved to the left turn lane just as the arrow changed to
green, the Honda inches from our back bumper. Jack didn't slow in
the turn, but as our car filled the intersection, he grabbed the
hand brake and pulled an almost perfect Rockford one-eighty
sliding-round move and barreled back the way we'd come, speeding
again in the traffic-free lane. The Honda wasn't as quick.
    "Keep driving!" I stared into the mirror to
give a blow-by-blow. "They're trying to back up and follow us, but
cars are behind them!"
    I didn't know if Jack's driving panache was
due to beginner's luck, survival, or specialized training, and
figured it was probably a measure of all three. I patted his leg in
encouragement, and he smiled. Then he had to burst my euphoria,
saying, "I'm glad we could slow them down a bit, because from the
sound of their motor when they were behind us, I think they have a
lot more horsepower than the Honda's factory specs!"
    A few seconds later, his prophesy came true.
The Honda resumed its tail, not even trying anymore to pretend it
wasn't interested in us. I looked back and met the gazes of the two
twenty-something males through the Honda's windshield, and though
we all hid behind sunglasses, there was no doubt who the two behind
us thought was the prey in this situation. They were in this for
keeps. I wondered how long the adrenalin and testosterone cocktail
surging through all these alpha males' veins would hold out. And if
we would escape before someone had a stroke. Or worse.
    The wind pounded my ears and jazzed my pulse
up several more notches. But it's all fun and games until someone
pulls a gun. A hand snaked out of the passenger window of the
Honda.
    "Jack! Gun!"