A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety Novels & Stories

At the very end, James placed my hand into Elijah’s. “Kid, she’s yours now. “But remember this. “She’ll always be the daughter of ninety-nine men.” As we exchanged rings, a thunderous roar echoed across the sky. Ninety-nine helicopters formed four giant words overhead. [Congratulations, Newlyweds.] When I was thirty-two, I gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl. Outside the delivery room, ninety-nine white-haired old men packed the entire hallway. The head nurse almost thought a mafia war was about to break out inside the hospital.

The sound of brakes echoed through the night as a black Masevati screeched to a halt in front of the hospital. Joshua stormed through the entrance, shouting, “Jim!”

“Marcus, one more word, and I’ll be compelled to staple your mouth together. Would you like that?” He shook his head vigorously in the negative, and I nodded. “Good. Now take me home.” The car was eased into the first gear and was slowly eased away from the front of the headquarters onto the highway. I noticed something strange as the car sped across the highway. The road was entirely bare and rid of all cars and people. Strange, don’t you think? But the dickheads in front barely noticed. They sang along at the top of their voices, to the James Freeman RnB that blasted from the car radio, oblivious to the danger that lurked in the shadows. But I sensed it.

A second later, it gave out its black smoke. Ibekwe dropped the pot on the ground and rubbed his eyes. Everywhere was quiet now. The children had stopped singing and dancing and the birds seemed to have gotten what they desired from their ruthless efforts on top of the tree. The light of the moon was still bright and Ibekwe knew he shouldn't be alone.

Marcus asked, pulling out a notepad. "I weakened the brake lines in two places—just enough that they'd hold for a few days of normal driving, but would fail under stress. Heavy braking, high speed, anything that put pressure on the system would cause a rupture." Mitchell wiped his eyes with a shaking hand. "I calculated it would happen on the highway. Quick, clean, look like an accident." "And it did," Grayson said flatly. "She died on Route 9, during rush hour, when the brakes failed going downhill."

I’ll be free, and my mother can get the treatment she needs without me scraping by for every penny. But I know what’s waiting for me out there. Route 419 isn’t called the Night Race for nothing. It’s a death trap—pitch black, winding, with no room for error. One slip, one wrong turn, and it’s all over.

They could bear to offend anyone, not Maxwell, he had no spot for forgiveness and 0% tolerance. Nash stopped her car at some point, on the quiet road. There was a strange black car packed in the middle of the road, its glasses were dim making it impossible for someone outside to get a clear view of the inside." what is the meaning of this" she snored.it was adding up to her rag. She stepped out of the car and walked to the black car but she realized something was off about this car. Why would such a car be packed in the middle of the road at that hour? and talk it all, there was no soul around."could it be that it's a tape?" she muttered "no,".

“Shit! get down!” Another truck drove up the median and slammed into the side of the truck denting my door. My head hit hard on the glass with the impact before another crash came from behind, pitching the truck forward. “GO, GO, GO!” EO cried as Tucker spun the wheel and gunned the engine in an attempt to maneuver out of the trap. Tucker managed to get the car around the trucks and sped off down highway 89. I turned to look behind us just as one of the black trucks rammed the back of our car.

​The text broke into the paper with a brutal, deep-set violence, the heavy steel hammers engraving our survival straight into the spine of the capital's own transit corridor. ​THE EIGHTH PLOT — THE HIGHWAY BREACH, I typed, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the flashing blue lights of the interceptors began to stain the wooden sideboards of the truck in a violent, rhythmic violet. They built their roads to drain the provinces, but the asphalt is now carrying the flood. The seventh press is on the market stalls, and the eighth is writing itself at sixty miles an hour. You cannot check the cargo when the road itself has gone rogue.

The van smelled of ozone and damp earth. June drove through the night, pushing the vehicle toward the jagged coastline of the Northern Territories. The high-speed chase through the High District was a blur of neon and screaming sirens, but out here, there was only the sound of the wind. Case sat in the passenger seat, his laptop open on his knees, watching the global news feeds. The world was in chaos. The total blackout of the High District had sent ripples through every stock market on the planet.