Rush (Carolina Bad Boys, #5)(60)

She didn’t get up that time.

She didn’t even move.

The bitterest bile pushed up from my stomach. I nearly puked.

Not yet.

Not with Shy out there. Vulnerable.

Not with Diablo grinning at me through his windshield, aware of my woman in pain while I couldn’t get to her.

My jaw clamped tight. I almost smashed the gas pedal through the floor. My hands gripped the steering wheel in an unshakable hold. My anger going totally combustible.

Diablo’s Camaro launched forward, and I headed straight for him.

If it was a game of chicken the fuck wanted, he could play it with me.

I heard nothing above the screaming squeal of rubber marking the road and the roar of high-octane engines.

I saw nothing but Diablo’s ugly grin plastered to the face I wanted to see splattered right through his windshield.

The closer we got, the faster we drove.

Head-on collision imminent.

One thing he’d forgotten was I had nerves of steel.

And he was messing with the wrong man. He’d messed with my girl.

Our cars on the verge crashing, I could see the maniacal gleam in his dark eyes.

One second to impact . . .

He faked to the left.

My field of vision cleared, I pushed down on the break.

Up ahead, Tail scooped Shy into his arms, and she held on for dear life.

Boomer, Tuck, and Cole rushed onto the scene, on the move toward Shy, forming a big, badass human ring.

No more fucking around.

I hit reverse with a quick shift of my hand, my tires peeling on pavement.

The whine and smoke sent from the tires when I thrust into sixth gear gave whole new meaning to 2 Fast 2 Furious.

The level of my rage was . . . atmospheric.

Diablo had stopped at the starting line, and he faced me, his big block engine purring.

Pretty soon that mechanism would be crying for mercy, just like him.

Chicken. I was bringin’ it this time.

Screaming down the road, my speedometer climbed. 100mph. 110. 125. Staying locked on D’s Camaro as he started ripping it toward me, I took the chance he’d feint in the other direction that time.

I was right. Predictable asshole.

As soon as Diablo breezed past me, I shifted down, peeled around, and doubled back.

Hitting 130 miles per hour, I widened my lane and overtook him far enough to cut a fast left.

Ten seconds later, I struck the front corner of his car.

Fucker hardly had time to see it coming.

Might’ve felt it, though.

I kicked open my door and vaulted out.

Sliding across my hood then his, I jumped to the ground just as his engine caught fire. The burst of orange flame leaping from the hood had nothing on the blazing desire to destroy the shit inside until his blood was little more than oil spilled on tarmac.

I jerked Diablo from his car and tossed him across the pavement with his face leading the way.

Road rash much?

Even worse when I planted a boot on his back and leaned over to scour his face against the bumpy road like a piece of fucking sandpaper.

“You hurt my woman?” I gripped him by the shoulders, lifting him so his feet reconnected with the ground.

Then my fist connected with his fugly face.

He spun away.

I coiled a hand in his shirt, hauling him back to me.

Rope-a-dope.

I heard people cheering. Whistling.

Maybe asking for his death.

If that was the case, they were in luck tonight.

I landed an uppercut that twisted him backward, but when he swung around, he pulled a knife from his boot.

“You don’t wanna go there.” I stood my ground as he advanced.

“You know where I wanna go?” He flashed the blade back and forth, a sneer curling his lips. “Back between your girl’s thighs. She might be a cripple, but she’s still got a sweet pussy, Rush.”

Insidious hate lit me up. “YOU FUCK!”

The impact of our cars was nothing like the impact of my body hitting his. I crashed against him, ducking from the knife, plowing into his midsection.

Knocked free, the blade flew across the air, and so did Diablo.

I pounced on him midflight, throwing him to the ground. I hammered him on both sides, from both hard-knuckled fists.

He kicked up, almost getting me in the nuts. A stab of pain shot through my groin, and he had enough room to wriggle free.

Up on his feet, he limped backward. I advanced. The crowd on the sidelines moved out of our way.

“I’ll fucking kill you so dead you’ll wish you were already DOA.” My next punch beat him so hard on the chin his neck snapped back.

His arms flailed.

Someone behind him helpfully set him upright in front of me again.

I pulled the pistol from the back of my jeans, twisting D into a sleeper hold. Locking him against me with an arm cranked around his neck, I pointed the Heckler against his head with unwavering aim.

“You. Hurt. Shy.” Blinded by the possibility he might’ve raped her, I so badly wanted to plow a bullet into his brain.

His voice went soprano-level. “Just wanted the money, man.”

“Yeah?” I bashed the butt of the gun against his cheek.

That crunch of metal against bone?

What a great fucking sound.

I wanted more.

“Now you’re getting nothing but time.” I growled.