Frank floored it. The engine roared, a mechanical scream against the oppressive silence of the plains. He remembered the look on the girl’s face before the knife fell, and the way the cultists had looked up, their eyes reflecting the firelight, realizing they had witnesses.
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!" Race with the Devil YIFY
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. Frank floored it