"Krarr? Prince Lettow actually sent you? The fucking Blue Blood? "
"You have something for me?" you ask. You glance back toward the road but it's quiet. Just a few cars drifting past, and none of them can see you or the AE86.
Carlos holds up a ruggedized plastic Pelican case in matte black, like you'd use to transport a pistol or a really good optical camera. "Lettow wants this delivered to a waiting plane."
"Where?"
He turns the case around. An address is taped to the other side. Blood has stained the tape. You consult your mental map of Texas. That's two hours north. And you're not going north.
"And it needs to be there by 4:30. The plane can't wait longer than that." He tries to say more, then coughs blood onto his dash.
"Ugh, fuck me…"
"You wanna kiss me and make it better?" Carlos snaps. "I'm…I'm fucking fine. Still got some of Dove's vee-tay in me." He concentrates, sweat pouring from his face. After a moment he's breathing more easily, though his skin is still ashen.
"Deliver this parcel," he says, throwing it through his driver-side window and onto your lap. "Or Prince Lettow will make Riga peck your eyes out while I watch. Don't let the Inquisition get it. Or the Anarchs."
"Anarchs?" you say.
Carlos restarts his AE86 and roars on out of there, blasting your Mitsubishi with dust and grit.
Next
You check the address one more time. Two hours? This isn't a Scotty-on-Star Trek problem—by all known laws of physics, getting there in time is entirely possible. But it's a cops-all-over-the-road problem. You can't afford to get pulled over doing 105 down some Texas highway.
You check your maps and consider the possibilities. A busier road would let you weave through traffic and stay hidden, though you'd have to pay attention to avoid police cruisers. There's also a less busy route, where you could just trust to raw speed and determination to get you where you need to go.
Are those the only two routes? You might be able to find another way using your maps if you study them, but that might take time you don't have.
You get your Mitsubishi moving again, then take the next exit and hit the nearly empty frontage road at seventy-five miles per hour. Then you keep accelerating.
You pass a few cars, but it's quiet here. After fifteen minutes, you spot another car ahead of you. It's a black Camaro—specifically a 1987 IROC-Z. Camaros were cheap muscle cars in your youth, beloved of metalheads and horsepower geeks. The driver lets you pass…then accelerates, easily keeping pace with you.
What the hell? You stomp the accelerator, focused totally on the road for a moment. When you check your mirrors, the Camaro is gone. Not behind you—just gone.
You slow down for a moment, then remember that you have places to be. You speed back up, still scanning for the Camaro, but it doesn't return.
Next