It was a relatively new model; the sun shimmering off the black paintwork. Inside, the leather seats screamed comfort, and Sam cut the man off and made his choice. Despite the man’s insistence on a higher priced car, Sam pushed through the rental agreement, providing the necessary documents, and ten minutes later, he pulled out on Baychester Avenue, the beastly engine roaring with pride.

The satnav told him it was over six hundred miles to Dillon, which meant he would be driving through the night. With the jetlag slowly taking a hold of his body, Sam knew the nine-hour journey would involve an overnight stay, but he planned to get at least halfway through before he called it a night.

Now, four hours into the journey, it felt like his eyelids had been lined with lead and he rolled the window to allow the cool air to crash against his face as he hurtled down the I-95. It would have been quicker to catch a flight, but after the damage he’d caused in the High Five, it was most likely the cops would have been looking for him, and he couldn’t risk his freedom.

Not until he’d found Alex.

The sense of foreboding in his stomach rose, and Sam drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel in a nervous pattern. After his run in with the Death Riders, Sam had a bad feeling that Alex was in trouble. Sure, she was a street-smart woman who had fended for herself and her siblings in the absence of any parental protection.

But just like with Blackridge, she was in a dangerous place, and Sam had seen too many good people run out of luck.

What he’d expected to have been a pleasant drive down the east coast of America had been one of frustration, with every traffic jam only bolstering his anxiety. Part of him wanted to push through the impending tiredness and just get to Dillon, but he relented.

Even if he did the journey in one go, he would be too tired to do anything when he got there.