When Rook came to, rain was still falling, though softer now. His body ached as he dragged himself upright, broken glass crunching under his palms. His veins still glowed faint red, a faint ember burning beneath his skin. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, and the sound of pistons slowed, steadied, like an idling motor.
Blue and red lights flared across the wreckage. Two state patrol cars skidded to a stop, their doors swinging open. Troopers rushed out, radios in hand. Rook tried to wave, to shout for help, but their radios shrieked when they got close.
The static wasn't normal. It was guttural, almost animal, like growls warped through distortion. The troopers staggered back, one pointing his flashlight at Rook with wide, horrified eyes.
"He ain't right," the man whispered. "Look at his eyes."
Rook stumbled, backing toward the ruined rig. "Wait, I—I didn't—"
But before he could finish, more lights cut through the rain. Headlights. Big ones.
Semis.
Three matte-black rigs thundered down the rise and pulled onto the shoulder with perfect mechanical precision. Their engines didn't rumble so much as vibrate, deep and bone-shaking, unnatural. The troopers lowered their guns instantly, stepping back as if under silent command.
The lead truck's door hissed open. A man climbed down, his visor mirrored, his steps too sharp. His voice was cold, flat.
"Cargo breached. Subject marked. Retrieve… or terminate."
Rook's blood turned to ice.
He didn't wait to find out what "terminate" meant.
His hand slammed the shifter into gear. The ruined cab should have been undrivable, but the engine roared like new beneath him. The wheels screamed against wet pavement as he hauled the wreck into motion.
Behind him, the black trucks rolled forward in unison, engines hungry.
The hunt had begun.