Chapter 48: Dead Engine (Caleb POV)
Chapter 48: Dead Engine (Caleb POV)
I’m standing in the empty lot, Tuesday night closing in, staring at the dead car, smoke still curling thick from the hood. Rain’s light now, spitting cold on my face, and my chest’s tight, Torres’s deadline ticking down to tomorrow morning. My hands shake, fists clenched, $5,600 in my jacket from the truck sale and odd jobs, but it’s not enough, not even close to his ten grand. Ryan’s beside me, cap low, kicking gravel soft, and my stomach twists, stranded here, hours slipping away fast. The car’s old—blue paint chipped, rattling quiet now—and my throat’s dry, mad and scared, needing a way out.
“No fixing it,” Ryan mutters, low, voice rough, leaning on the bumper, hands shaky. My chest burns, hot and fast, and I kick the tire again, hard, rubber thumping loud, “We’ve got to move—can’t stay here.” My voice shakes, loud in the quiet lot, and I look around—dark fields, road empty, wind whistling soft through weeds. My hands rub my face, wet and cold, and my head’s spinning, counting time, needing to get back to town, needing more cash.
I step to the road, fast, boots crunching gravel, and stick my thumb out, rain dripping off my jacket. “Hitch,” I say, sharp, glancing at Ryan, needing him with me. He nods, slow, following close, cap hiding his eyes, and my chest’s heavy, feeling the clock, Torres’s growl—two days or worse—loud in my ears. Cars pass—headlights flashing, tires hissing wet—and my hands shake, waving, desperate for a ride, desperate to keep going.
A truck rumbles up—big, red, slowing loud, brakes squeaking—and my stomach jumps, relief small but there. The window rolls down, slow, and a guy leans out—gruff, beard thick, eyes squinting, “Where to?” His voice is short, rough, and my throat’s tight, stepping up, “Town—few miles back.” My hands shake, pointing behind, and he grunts, low, nodding quick, “Get in.” My chest lifts, and I grab Ryan, fast, “Come on,” loud, pulling him to the cab.
We climb up—steps slick, door creaking loud—and the cab’s warm, air thick with diesel and sweat. My boots thud on the floor, and I slide in, Ryan close, shoulder brushing mine, heat hitting my wet skin. The seats are worn—vinyl cracked, stuffing poking out—and the radio’s static, buzzing soft under the engine’s rumble. My hands rest on my knees, shaky still, and my chest’s tense, watching the trucker shift gears, big hands rough on the wheel, grunting short, “Bad spot to break down.”
“Yeah,” I say, quiet, voice shaky, nodding slow, “Car’s toast—need to get back.” My throat’s dry, and I glance at Ryan—cap low, hands twitching, quiet but there. The truck rolls, slow at first, then fast, tires humming on wet road, and my stomach’s churning, hours lost, Torres’s clock louder now. The cab shakes—rattling soft, heat blasting—and my chest burns, needing a plan, needing more than $5,600 to keep us alive.
Ryan shifts, slow, voice low, “Got something—old stash, two grand.” My head snaps to him, fast, chest jumping, “What?” My voice cracks, loud, leaning close, needing it true. He nods, slow, cap up a little, eyes tired, “Hidden at my place—under a floorboard, taped up.” My stomach flips, hot and quick, and my hands clench, cash in my pocket heavy, “Two grand? That’s seven-five—close, man.” My voice shakes, hope thin but sharp, and I feel it, a shot, risky but there.
“Collectors watch it,” he says, quiet, voice cracking, rubbing his face slow, “Risky—could be caught.” My chest tightens, cold washing over, and my throat’s thick, seeing Torres’s guys, waiting, ready to take it all. “We’ve got to,” I say, loud, grabbing his arm, firm, “No choice—seven-five’s better than five-six.” My hands shake, pushing him, and my head’s spinning, needing that stash, needing to dodge them. The trucker grunts, low, eyes on the road, radio static popping, and my chest’s tense, planning fast.
The truck rolls into town—lights glowing wet, streets busy—and my stomach’s tight, watching buildings pass, close to Ryan’s place. “Drop us here,” I say, loud, pointing at a corner, and the trucker pulls over, slow, brakes hissing soft. My hands shake, opening the door, cold air rushing in, and I jump down, boots hitting pavement, pulling Ryan with me, “Thanks,” quick, slamming it shut. The truck rumbles off—tail lights red, fading fast—and my chest’s pounding, turning to Ryan, “We sneak in—grab it, get out.”
He nods, slow, voice low, “Back way—less eyes.” My throat’s dry, and we move, fast, sticking to shadows, rain light on my face, $5,600 safe in my jacket. The streets are loud—cars splashing, voices far off—and my hands clench, feeling the stash, $2,000 tempting fate, close but dangerous. We hit his building—brick chipped, stairs dark—and my chest’s tight, creeping up quiet, boots soft on metal, Ryan close behind, shaky but in.
We slip inside—hall dim, air stale, floor creaking soft—and my stomach jumps, moving fast to his door, unlocked still from before. My hands shake, pushing it open, and my eyes scan—cans scattered, chair busted, quiet now. “Where?” I whisper, loud, turning to him, needing it quick. He points, slow, “Floorboard—by the couch,” and my chest lifts, stepping over, kneeling fast, fingers prying wood, cold and rough. Then my head snaps up—headlights flash outside, faint through cracked glass—and my stomach drops, spotting a car parked out front, dark, headlights off, waiting still.