It struck the Caliber’s rear passenger side like a tank, removing the quarter panel, buckling the wheel. The glass on that side spiderwebbed. Luke screamed, thrown first against the driver’s door, then into the passenger seat. He had no idea what had just happened—not until he looked up and saw a Toyota Tundra swinging around behind him. Ruben Osterfeld—Mr. goddamn UFC—was behind the wheel, with Xander riding shotgun.

“Kidding me,” Luke groaned. A delirious cackle broke from between his lips. He had been so close—twenty feet away from broadsiding Johan, liberating Kitty, then delivering to the authorities one hell of a story.

The Caliber, remarkably, was still running, chugging along doggedly on three and a half wheels. Luke glanced at the speedometer. It read 120, but that wasn’t right. It was fucked, just like the rest of the car, just like Luke himself.

The Tundra rolled alongside him. Xander leaned out the passenger window. His face was a red map, detailed with dog bites. He’d have some memorable scars to go with that charming demeanor.

“Fuck you, man.” Luke flipped him the bird.

Xander responded by pulling out a semiautomatic pistol, something fat and mean and with a decidedly more serious payload than Luke’s .38 Special. Before Luke could make any kind of evasive maneuver, Xander aimed at the Caliber’s front tire, squeezed the trigger, and blew the rubber off the rim.

Luke pumped the brake, worked the wheel, but couldn’t keep his gutsy old Dodge from skewing out of control. It veered blindly through the scrub, clipped the trunk of a dead juniper, then slammed into a boulder that appeared so suddenly in the darkness that it could have been magicked into existence.

There was a riot of sound: metal crumpling, glass breaking, the airbag discharging with a loud, powdery bang. The Caliber flipped onto its left side and skimmed across the desert floor, leaving a long scratch mark behind it. The engine ticked and spluttered, then gave up the ghost.

Luke pried his hands from the wheel. He was still alive, but he didn’t care.

The ax came through the windshield only seconds later.

The laminated glass—already shattered into a meshwork of tiny squares—sagged inward, split in a broad line where the ax had punched through. Its bearded bottom hooked to the inside, and when Johan pulled back, he lifted the entire windshield out in one flexible piece.

Luke managed a cracked and helpless yell, twisting in his seat. Johan bent down and peered through the open windshield. He was grinning, but his eyes relayed a deeper, more ferocious energy.

“Hey, are you that actor guy?” He curled a tress of blond hair behind one ear. “Any chance of a selfie?”