Frank saw the bridge ahead—a narrow, rusted span over a dry creek bed. He saw the silhouettes of more figures standing on the girders, waiting. This wasn't a chase anymore; it was a ritual extraction.
The desert sun didn’t set; it bled out over the horizon, turning the Texas asphalt into a jagged streak of obsidian. Frank pushed the 440 Magnum until the steering wheel vibrated in his sweaty palms. Beside him, Roger was reloading the shotgun, his hands shaking so hard the shells rattled against the floorboards. Race with the Devil YIFY
He gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. He didn't slow down for the curve. He smelled burning rubber and old incense. As they hit the bridge, Frank realized the headlights behind them hadn't flickered once. They were being driven into the heart of the dark, and the road was running out. Frank saw the bridge ahead—a narrow, rusted span
Behind them, the headlights of three nondescript sedans cut through the rising dust like predatory eyes. These weren't highway patrol. These were the men from the clearing—the ones in the robes who had turned a vacation into a blood sacrifice. The desert sun didn’t set; it bled out
Roger leaned out, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy. The shotgun blast shattered the sedan’s windshield, but the car didn't veer. It surged forward, slamming into them again, forcing the vehicle toward the crumbling edge of the shoulder. "They aren't stopping, Frank! They don't care if they die!"