We were ten miles up the road, almost to the I-74 exit, when Six’s grip tightened on the wheel and his foot pressed on the gas. His gaze flickered to the mirrors, but when I looked, there were no red and blue lights like I expected. In fact, there was nothing but other cars.
He began weaving in and out of traffic, but even with everything, we still didn’t stand out. The moment we passed the border into Indiana, he pulled into the inside lane and slammed on the gas, rocketing us forward. It was then I noticed a white sedan behind us doing the same.
We were being followed. Not by law enforcement, which probably meant it was someone as equally dangerous as him.
Six rolled down the windows as the other car gained on us. “Get down on the floor unless you want your bullet now.” He grabbed his
