Leo gripped the wheel of his rented sedan and pulled to the side. He’d been driving for three hours, fleeing a failed business and a failed marriage, heading nowhere in particular. But now, he watched as two Lamborghinis screamed past.
Leo pulled in fifty yards behind them. The engines idled with a guttural, wet purr that vibrated in his chest. 2 lamborghini
He pulled back onto the road and, against all reason, floored the sedan. It groaned and shuddered, but he kept the two Lamborghinis in sight, tiny specks that grew smaller by the second. Then, ahead, he saw them slow down. They pulled over at a derelict gas station—a relic with cracked pumps and a single working soda machine. Leo gripped the wheel of his rented sedan
The woman pulled two sodas from the machine and tossed one to Leo. “We’re heading to the Valley of Fire. Sunset hits the red rocks like stained glass. You’ve got four wheels and a full tank.” Leo pulled in fifty yards behind them
Leo looked at his car. The cracked windshield. The dented door. The coffee-stained cup in the holder. “Running away,” he admitted.
The desert highway unspooled like a black ribbon under the Nevada sun. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, warping the distant mountains into liquid mirages. In the middle of this emptiness, two dots appeared in the rearview mirror—low, wide, and moving with the unnatural speed of fighter jets on afterburner.
And three cars—two roaring Italian stallions and one coughing sedan—pulled out onto the empty highway, side by side, chasing the sun toward the fire.