Striker maneuvered his Charger through the narrow streets in a safe and responsible manner…

…until they broke free of the city limits. Then he gunned the engine and sped down the only straight stretch of road available on this side of the state—a fact he always stashed away in his mind when he was thinking about the Charger. He got to drive it so rarely that once they were on the open road, he cared little for how hard Phantom gripped the seat or what comments escaped his clamped lips every few moments.

“We’re going to die,” Phantom said. “You know that, right? Eighteen million is no good to us once we’re dead.”

Striker snorted. “It’s hardly eighteen million anymore. And besides, the team still thinks the original amount is only ten million, so technically, we’re still pretty darn rich.”

“Well, the team’s not around to hear us, and besides, it won’t matter anyway, because soon we’re going to die.”

“Relax,” Striker said.

He spun the wheel to the left, dodged another car, and dove back into the right lane. A barrage of honking and enraged profanity followed after them. Phantom hissed something foul under his breath.

“At least slow down before we attract the authorities,” Phantom said once he had recovered. “The last thing we need for a cop to see our faces.”

“None of them are out,” Striker said. “The bomb threats are still pouring in all over the north end of town after that very timely hostage situation. We’re safe. Hell, we could probably run on a killing spree downtown, and the cops would never know.”

“That wasn’t really my point,” Phantom said.

Striker was having more fun—and liberation—than he’d had in a long time, but Phantom was starting to look a little pale, and the last thing Striker wanted was for him to puke on the floor of his precious car. Besides, Phantom was right. Risking their situation was far from worth it, especially when they were this close to regaining control of the job.

“Fine,” Striker said, easing his foot off the gas. They slowed to a cool eighty miles per hour, cruising with the rest of traffic along the superhighway.

“Better,” Phantom said, even though he didn’t sound like it. “Sheesh. I miss the days when you took this a little more seriously.”

“I miss the days where you didn’t.”

“Well pardon me for not being a clueless teenager anymore. At least nowadays the risks I take are calculated. And I’m surprised you still like driving this fast, what with all the wrecks you’ve seen… and caused.”

“I have not caused that many wrecks.”

“Not unintentionally, no.”

Striker glanced sideways. “All part of the job.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Slow down, will you?”

Striker sighed and slowed just enough miles per hour for Phantom’s fingers to stop digging into his seat. Around them, the superhighway traffic kept its steady flow of travelers focused only on themselves and the immediate space around their cars. The vehicles on Striker’s left began to pass him in a steady stream, and he begrudgingly merged into the right lane.

“If we lose any more time than necessary, I’m blaming you,” he said. “And if those kids get away again, you’re dead to me.”

“I figured,” Phantom said.

“Seriously, I thought you wouldn’t be so nervous. Surely you remember the way you used to drive on those early getaway jobs?”

Phantom glanced at him. “Of course I do. Why do you think it makes me so nervous?”

“Come on,” Striker said, elbowing him in the side. “That wreck wasn’t your fault—it really was an accident, and besides, it was years ago. Causing one major pileup shouldn’t put you off driving completely.”

“I’m in the car, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and you’re a wonderful backseat driver.”

Phantom exhaled. “It’s not just that one accident. It was all that stuff we did before. I didn’t have to take it seriously because we were just kids screwing around. We only ran small missions for pocket change. Nobody cared if we messed anything up or got caught.”

“That’s because we weren’t hunting people yet.”

An odd and abrupt silence fell. The two of them had been partners in crime—both in the figurative and literal sense—for most of the relevant past. But once again, Phantom was right. If anyone had good reason to calculate their risks, it was the two of them. Phantom was just naturally better at these things, and no matter how good of a team leader Striker was, he knew he couldn’t pull it off without the infuriating prudence Phantom possessed. They both had qualities the other lacked, all of which helped better the team.

Still, there was a reason Dagger had chosen Striker. Sometimes, the necessity to act in a situation outweighed the time it took to calculate the risk. That’s where Striker could trust himself to succeed.

Their conversation had gotten Striker’s mind rolling—and Phantom’s too, from the silence on his side of the car—and he spent the next ten or so minutes lost in his own head. Thoughts of the old city. Of being teenagers roaming the streets as if they owned them. Of spending nights in jail and bailing each other out with stolen money in the hopes the cops wouldn’t run tracers on them (they never did). How two good-for-nothing, penniless, egotistical, daredevil, death-wish-having kids had managed to survive their time in the old city was beyond him.

But he was glad, for the most part. Having those memories with Phantom gave him someone he could always trust in this line of work. He needed that more than ever after they had met Dagger and the crew. Things changed. Whether or not that change was good was up for debate.

“How much longer?” Phantom asked, breaking the silence.

Striker blinked back to the present. He glanced at his phone screen. “Another hour. We’ll be there before the men arrive on the train… as long as we don’t slow down any more than we already have. Hint, hint.”

“Hm.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

Striker could guess. He didn’t bother pushing it and instead resumed his grim stare out the windshield. He saw the same license plates, the same tasteless bumper stickers, the same road signs in the distance, and the same trees that whizzed by the passenger-side window. None of it offered much comfort.

He restrained a grumble. This was why he didn’t like ‘deep’ talks. Somehow, he always wound up getting introspective, and few things were more distracting than inner thoughts. The last thing he needed now was to overthink something that didn’t even matter anymore. Their decision to join Dagger had been concordant. There was no reason to doubt themselves now that they were thirteen years into it. Even if most traces of their old life were all gone, there was no reason. Life remained livable, and that was all they needed.

For now, there was the mission to complete. Those three children had no idea how much worse their lives were about to get.