The night air was sharp with the scent of asphalt and gun oil. Haru sat wedged in the back seat of an old black muscle car that rumbled down the highway. Two of Devil’s men — Flint and Roach — were up front, both grim-faced, both with their eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirrors. She was still half-shaking, heart pounding, from when they’d pulled her out of the apartment against her furious protests.
At first, she thought they were abductors, another set of monsters. She had screamed, cursed, demanded they let her go.
“Quit it, girl,” Flint had snapped. “Prez sent us. You’re safer with us than anywhere else right now.”
It had taken those words — Prez sent us — for Haru to realize this was Devil’s doing. That realization hadn’t comforted her. Not yet. She wasn’t used to
