A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety Novels & Stories

He ordered and she did. “Chloe.” Damien called. “Yeah.” “Turn the car towards the Duke Street and head towards the bridge.” “What? Are you crazy? We will be crashing right into the water, that road is under construction.” “And that is why you are heading there.”

THE MISSION: THE SCORCHED HIGHWAY The simulation loaded, and immediately, the sound was deafening. They were hurtling down a massive, six-lane highway at 100 miles per hour. The sky was a scorched orange, filled with swirling dust storms and lightning. The road was cracked asphalt floating over a canyon of magma. It was a heavy metal album cover come to life. They were inside a massive, armored vehicle—a War-Rig. It was covered in spikes and armor plating. Jinx was in the driver’s seat, her hands flying across a holographic dashboard, wrestling with the steering yoke.

The night on Fifth Avenue was shattered by the deafening roar of engines. Exhaust pipes spat out visible heat waves. Twelve armored black Scavenger vehicles took over all the main lanes. The anti - collision beams reflected the cold light of street lamps. The convoy was tight, with less than half a meter between each vehicle, and no brake lights were on.

On the new route, I saw him coming towards me, giving him exactly what he wanted but I had to lure him to my trap in order to catch him. I unlocked my door and jumped just as the other car came into contact with mine and so did the latter. "I knew it!" I spat as I stood to my feet. He brought himself just right to my feet. The street was deserted. Trash cans were filled to the brim to the extent of vomiting out their contents. The buildings were old, rusty and disheveled, clothes hanging out from a few of the balconies. It smelt rancid due to the rotting garbage. A smell of burning cooking oil invaded my poor nostrils, making me nauseous. The stench of the LAPD offices was far much better. I

"Bad enough that I'm calling you at five in the morning." I was already moving, sliding out from under River's arm, reaching for the jeans I'd left draped over the chair. "I'm on my way." "Bring your mates," Antonia said quietly. "You're going to want them for this." She hung up. River was sitting up now, eyes sharp despite the early hour. "What happened?" "They found the Black Talon MC leader." Cade was on his feet before I finished the sentence. "Where?" "Highway 9. Fifteen miles out." I pulled a shirt over my head, not bothering with anything more than the basics. "Antonia says it's bad."

The door to my room was suddenly pushed open without warning. My brother, Adrian Hoffman, walked in and scoffed when he saw me staring blankly at my diary. "Aren't you a little too old to be writing a diary?" Normally, I would have argued back. But this time, I didn't even lift my head or respond. Seeing my lack of reaction, he grew irritated and ran his hand through his hair before snatching my diary to take a look. On it was a single number—99.

The remote fell from my hands, cluttering to the floor as I looked at the horrible scene before me. “Oh my God,” I hear someone from behind me. “At around three in the afternoon, there’s been a terrible accident on the northern highway, twenty seven kilometres ahead of the Hluhluwe Gas Station. Police reports a possible high-jacking and attempted murder from three black SUVs. The live footage shows the number plate of-“ my blood ran cold, watching Miles’ car being chased by three cars. They couldn’t have mistaken the number plate. It was as clear as the day.

Henry*** The night air was electric as the growl of engines shattered the silence. A fleet of sleek, armored vehicles snaked through the dense forest, their headlights cutting through the shadows like blades. At the center of it all was a black Rolls-Royce, its polished exterior gleaming ominously under the pale moonlight. The vehicle was a statement—a declaration of power, wealth, and unshakable authority.

Graham's Point Of View The black SUV didn't just bounce down the private mountain road leading to the Sinclair Estate… it slammed, rattled, and groaned over the gravel like a tank tearing through a war zone. Every pothole felt like a hammer striking my ribs. Wedged onto the floorboards of the back seat, I struggled against the thick plastic zip-ties binding my hands behind my back. My fingers had gone completely numb about ten miles ago, the circulation cut off so thoroughly I couldn't feel whether they still moved when I flexed them.

Mason “Holy fuck,” I murmured as Rick drove us beneath the overpass and to the clearing where all the drivers and members of the underground scene were gathered. There was a shit ton of people. At least two hundred and fifty. This was way bigger than what I’d expected, and a bit of anxiety started chewing at my insides. Rick slowed to a crawl as we drove through the swarm of bodies. People got out of our way for the most part, and I was glad the Fastback had blacked-out windows. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be recognized yet.