“Fuck fuck fuck!” Benito pounded the steering wheel and yelled his frustration, his shout ringing out over the growl of the engine. He dimmed his own lights but kept them on half beam as his foot eased from the accelerator, wary of the scattered obstacles still cluttering the road.
His speed returned to normal, and the sweat cooled on his skin, leaving him shivering despite the warmth from the heated seat beneath him. Teeth chattering, he wiped his brow and cranked the heaters, blasting himself with hot air as he fought to calm himself down.
“Shit!” He thumped the steering wheel again, then leaned over it, assessing his surroundings properly. The BMW was long gone, but he was still on private land with a scaffold pole tucked up his sleeve. Jesus fucking Christ. Perspective returned to him, carried by a harsh wave of self-loathing. He slowed to a crawl and opened the window. After a laser glance around, he launched the pipe into a nearby ditch.
The dull thud of metal on damp grass punctured the quiet. Benito flinched and let out a slow breath. He shut the window and sped up towards what he hoped was an exit onto public roads and not a driveway to a fucking house.
Please. I need this. He gripped the wheel tighter and prayed to Rosetta’s god. Unbidden, flashbacks of the last time he’d attended mass bombarded him. Gianna’s chubby toddler hand welded in his. Roberto’s knuckles as he’d dusted Benito’s skull for shits and giggles. Benito cursed and shook his head, forcing the memories away, clinging only to the vow that if he found the road, he’d drive and drive and drive until he was a better man than Roberto.
Somehow, his prayers were answered. His reward came in the form of a busted gate. He drove over it and around a pile of hay bales. Up ahead, a sign for a town he recognised reflected back at him from across a paved road, and relief flooded him, leaving him dizzy.
He pulled onto the B road, keeping a sharp eye out for blue lights or an ambush, but in the murky gloom of the unlit road, all he saw were the upended wheels of the smoking BMW and the wild eyes of the driver still trapped inside.
17
In the darkest depths of Benito’s brain, he had two options: stop and empty the contents of the BMW into his own car, or drive on by—go home, take a shower, and forget tonight ever happened.
He slowed to a stop without making a conscious decision between the two and parked twenty feet away from the stricken beamer. Take the stash and run. If you go now, you can move it on and be home and dry by the morning.
The road was deserted. Benito covered his face and jogged to the BMW. He crouched to peer inside. Nino Moretti had fallen unconscious, blood dripping down his face, and his passengers were gone. They’d left their man behind to either die or get nicked when the feds finally showed up at the scene of the accident.
It wouldn’t be long. The road was quiet, but it wouldn’t stay that way forever. A good Samaritan, the police, whatever. Time was ticking by.
Help him. Pull him out. Take him somewhere safe. But the better man Benito wanted to be was drowned out by the selfish bastard who craved to be free.
He stood and forced the boot of the car open with his foot. Upside down, the flooring had come loose, revealing the block of taped parcels. Eight in total, a huge haul. Too much for Benito to carry in one trip.
Ears trained for approaching vehicles, he dashed back and forth, hurling the parcels into the passenger seat of the SUV. One split, spraying him with cocaine. He tasted it on his lips, burning, and his heart cried out for Mickey.
The boot emptied out. Benito jammed it shut and crouched again to consider the wheel arches. He didn’t have the time or the tools to get inside them properly, but if he reached—
A groan from inside the car stilled him, clawing at his gut.
Benito reclaimed his outstretched hand and squatted lower.
Nino Moretti stared back at him. His lips twitched to form words, but Benito stood before he could speak and backed away from the car, until he stumbled to a stop.
Go. Now. Run.
His feet stayed rooted to the floor.
“Fuck!” It was the thousandth curse to escape him that night, but his voice stayed low this time, strangled and hoarse. The demon on his shoulder was louder. Get the hell out of here. You have a car full of product. If the feds catch you, you’re going down for twenty fucking years. Don’t get made for this arsehole. He wouldn’t do it for you.
Benito wrenched his feet from the gravelly road and rounded the car. He doubled down and took a closer look at Moretti. He was bleeding and hanging by his seatbelt, but he was awake. “How bad are you hurt?”
Moretti blinked. “I—I don’t know.”
“Could you run if I get you out?”
“Run where?”
“Anywhere. I can’t get all the product out, so the feds are gonna sweep the whole area when they get here.”
Moretti swallowed hard. “They’ll bring dogs. Doesn’t matter if I run, they’ll catch me anyway.”
His point was valid. Benito cursed again and considered his options as his window for escape narrowed with every passing second.
Go. Now. Run.
The demon reached full volume, but as its words hit home, a new voice rose, calling its way from the ashes of Benito’s conscience.
Be a better man.
Benito jolted into action. The driver’s door was jammed shut. He smashed the passenger window and crawled through it to release Moretti’s seatbelt. “Brace yourself. You’re gonna drop.”
He pressed the button. Moretti landed in a heap on the upturned ceiling of the car, his shoulders taking the impact.
Fuck. Benito cringed, praying he had no neck or spine injuries they’d just made worse, and snatched Moretti’s smashed phone from the wreckage.
Blood roaring, he backed out of the car and helped Moretti do the same. Then he looped an arm beneath his shoulders and ran for the SUV.
He threw Moretti in the back and slid into the driver’s seat. “Don’t try and jump me,” he warned. “Or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Moretti said nothing. He lay flat and closed his eyes, and Benito wondered if he’d die anyway, leaving him with a shit ton of product and a dead body to shift. But his imagination wouldn’t play that game for long. As though it refused to see an ending where Benito’s attempts at redemption ended in failure.
He gunned the SUV engine and drove away from the beamer, forcing himself to keep a bland pace that wouldn’t make them memorable to any passing car. The main road was three miles away. Benito cut across country, weaving along dirt tracks and lanes until he came to the quietest unmonitored junction.
Moretti perked up as they joined the A5 heading south. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. Just drop me off at the services.”
“Nah. Too risky with you covered in claret. And you need a hospital.”
“Right, because that’s not risky.” Moretti hissed through his teeth, cringing in pain.
Benito glowered at him in the mirror, already regretting not leaving him behind, but as he glared, it dawned on him how young Moretti was. Benito remembered him as a kid slinging weed because that’s what he’d been when he’d last seen him. Whatever had changed, the passage of time remained the same. Even if Moretti was an adult, he was barely out of his teens. “How old are you?”