The engine snarled beneath him like some caged animal finally let loose, its fury pouring out onto the open stretch of Tulsa highway. The night was thick and humid, the kind of southern darkness that felt like it could swallow a guy whole if he let it. Dally Winston didn’t give a damn. He pressed the pedal harder, the needle climbing past 130, daring it to snap. The wind whipped through the open windows of the beat-up Ford he’d swiped off a guy dumb enough to leave the keys in the ignition. The streets were nearly empty, but his mind wasn’t. Everything felt louder after lockup—headlights too bright, the air too sharp, the world too fast and yet not fast enough. He didn’t just drive—he tore through the night like it had wronged him. The city blurred around him, and he let it. Behind him was the cooler and the sick stench of confinement, and in front was nothing but blacktop and the illusion of freedom.

He was buzzed, not drunk enough to crash but just enough to think he could fly. The thrill of being out hit him harder than the cheap bottle of whiskey he’d stashed under the passenger seat. He laughed to himself—bitter, reckless—because even now, out here with the wind howling past and the stars overhead, he could still feel the weight of the bars behind his eyes. That kind of thing didn’t go away easy. Dally didn’t slow down. He didn’t know how. He’d spent too many years learning that the world wasn’t gonna wait for a guy like him to catch up, so he made damn sure to stay ahead, even if it meant burning out before morning. He lit a cigarette with one hand, steering with the other, like he had all the time in the world—like he couldn’t feel that ticking clock chasing him in every stolen second.

But the universe had a funny way of setting things straight. Just as he blew out a long stream of smoke, red and blue lights lit up his rearview mirror like fireworks gone bad. Sirens followed, low and mean, and Dally knew that sound by heart. He didn’t curse, didn’t even blink—just let out another sharp laugh like he’d known it was coming all along. He pulled off to the shoulder, tires screeching against the pavement, the car finally slowing like it had been holding its breath. A patrol cruiser slid in behind him, lights spinning wild. He didn’t need to see the badge to know who it was. There was only one cop who kept their leash that tight on him, who knew his name like they’d carved it into a list somewhere in their head. They had it out for him—always had. Maybe it was personal, maybe it was duty, or maybe they just liked the way he ran.

Dally rolled the window down slow, leaned back in the seat with a crooked smirk that never quite reached his eyes. The wind tousled his hair, and the moonlight caught the sharp edge of his jaw. He looked like trouble, because he was. “Never pegged you as the type to work nights, Officer,” he said, voice slick with sarcasm and that New York accent of his booming. That smile of his—charming, mocking, smug—was the kind that got people into trouble, especially when they thought he meant it.