The wind rolled through Harmonfield’s Lower Strip, carrying the scent of gasoline, street tacos, and danger.
Jack’s boots clicked against the cracked asphalt as he and Sarah rounded the final block of 7th and Mercer. Neon lights from underground lounges flickered overhead. Somewhere beneath the surface, the city breathed in gears and pulses.
He slowed when a matte-black Dodge Challenger idled at the curb. Ryan leaned against it, arms crossed, sunglasses on despite the moonlight.
“Took you long enough,” Ryan muttered, flicking his cigarette to the ground.
Jack kept walking. “Didn’t know we were racing to meet you.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “What do you want, Ryan?”
Ryan nodded toward the alley beside him. A soft hum vibrated under the pavement—music, engine roars, money being counted.
