Chapter 53: Backdoor Run (Caleb POV)
Chapter 53: Backdoor Run (Caleb POV)
I’m sprinting out the back of the Rusty Nail, my boots splashing puddles, Ryan stumbling beside me. Torres’s voice yells behind—loud, mad, “Hart! Delgado!”—and my chest’s pounding, hard and fast, hearing the door crack, wood busting open. My lip’s swollen, blood still sticky, and my hands shake, pushing Ryan ahead, needing him to move, needing us out. Benji’s with us—guitar banging his hip, breath quick—and my stomach twists, Torres close, dawn deadline ticking, ten grand we don’t have chasing us down.
We hit the alley—narrow, wet, trash cans lining the walls—and my throat’s tight, running hard, boots slipping a little on slick ground. “This way!” Benji says, loud, turning sharp, leading us through, and my chest burns, following fast, Ryan coughing soft, ribs sore from the collector’s kick. My hands clench, fists tight, and my jaw’s bruised, aching with every step, but I push it, needing to lose Torres, needing Benji’s plan. The air’s cold—puddles splash, wind cuts through—and my stomach’s churning, broke and running, gig our only shot now.
Trash cans tip—clanging loud, rolling behind us—and my head snaps back, hearing boots stomp, Torres’s crew close, shouting rough. “Faster!” I yell, sharp, voice cracking, grabbing Ryan’s arm, pulling him hard, his cap low, hiding his eyes. My chest’s tight, and my legs burn, dodging junk—bottles, bags, wet cardboard—and Benji runs ahead, pointing quick, “Van’s there!” My throat’s dry, spotting it—old, beat-up, parked crooked—and my hands shake, needing in, needing gone before they catch us.
We reach it—exhaust choking the air, rust flaking off—and my stomach jumps, Benji yanking the side door, metal screeching loud. “In!” he says, rough, climbing up, and my hands shove Ryan—fast, hard—into the back, his groan soft as he lands. My chest heaves, jumping in after, boots thudding, and Benji’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the wheel, key twisting quick. My throat’s tight, and I slam the door—hard, loud—feeling the engine cough, rattling alive, shaking the floor under me.
“Hold on,” Benji says, loud, peeling out, tires screeching wet, and my hands grip the seat—torn, sticky—heart banging fast. My jaw’s set, bruised but firm, and my chest’s tense, looking back, seeing shadows move—Torres’s guys, running out, too late. “Lost them,” I mutter, rough, voice shaky, turning to Ryan—slumped, cap hiding his face, breathing hard. My stomach twists, glad we’re clear, scared it’s not over, dawn close, ten grand still out there.
“Where we going?” I say, sharp, leaning forward, hands shaky on my knees, needing to know, needing safe. “My place,” Benji says, loud, eyes on the road, van rattling loud around us. “Hide out—talk Shank’s Dive.” My chest lifts, small and quick, and my throat’s dry, nodding fast, “Good—tell me.” My voice cracks, fierce, and my fists clench, needing the gig, needing cash to fight Torres off us.
He talks—quick, voice steady, “Shank’s—biker haunt, far edge of town, big pay, three grand split three ways.” My stomach jumps, $1,000 each, and my hands shake, listening hard, “Rough crowd—fights, loud, but they pay tomorrow night if we play good.” My chest burns, fierce and sure, and my jaw’s tight, “We’re in—got to be.” My voice shakes, pushing it, and my throat’s thick, feeling Ryan shift, slow, cap up a little, eyes tired but there.
“Rough’s fine,” I say, loud, leaning back, van bouncing hard, “We’ve got nothing—need it.” My hands clench, cashless still, and my stomach twists, picturing Shank’s—bikers, beer, a stage to scrape something back. Ryan nods, slow, voice rough, “Yeah—if you say,” shaky but in, and my chest’s heavy, glad he’s with me, scared he’s fading. “Agreed then,” Benji says, quick, turning sharp, van groaning loud, “My place—crash, plan, go tomorrow.” My throat’s dry, and my hands shake, needing rest, needing this to work.
The streets blur—lights wet, cars honking far—and my chest’s tense, watching Benji drive, knuckles gripping hard, exhaust loud in my ears. My jaw aches, bruised and stiff, and my stomach’s tight, thinking Torres, thinking dawn, ten grand we can’t touch. “What’s Shank’s like?” I say, loud, voice shaky, needing more, leaning close. “Biker dive—tough, pay big, Griff runs it,” Benji says, rough, glancing quick, “Play hard, we’re good.” My chest lifts, fierce hope, and my hands clench, ready, needing that $1,000 bad.
We pull up—apartment block, low and dark, lot cracked—and my stomach jumps, Benji cutting the engine, rattling quiet now. “Inside,” he says, loud, jumping out, and my hands shake, helping Ryan—slow, sore, coughing soft—out the van, boots hitting gravel loud. My chest’s tight, limping up stairs—metal creaking, air damp—and my throat’s dry, pushing the door, Benji’s place ahead, safe for now. My jaw’s set, and my hands clench, gig agreed, dawn ticking closer, Torres out there still.
Then a yell cuts through—loud, sharp, “Hey!”—and my chest stops, head snapping back, neighbor banging the wall inside, voice mad, “Black truck circling—saw your van!” My stomach drops, cold and fast, and my hands shake, spotting it—Torres’s truck, black and big, rolling slow down the block, headlights catching us as we pull in.