The desert sun didn’t set; it bled out over the horizon, turning the Texas asphalt into a jagged streak of obsidian. Frank pushed the 440 Magnum until the steering wheel vibrated in his sweaty palms. Beside him, Roger was reloading the shotgun, his hands shaking so hard the shells rattled against the floorboards.
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. Race with the Devil YIFY
Behind them, the headlights of three nondescript sedans cut through the rising dust like predatory eyes. These weren't highway patrol. These were the men from the clearing—the ones in the robes who had turned a vacation into a blood sacrifice. The desert sun didn’t set; it bled out