Rowan Pov

“There! There’s a bridge up ahead!” Bret shouted, pointing at a crumbling, ancient bridge that stretched across a narrow canyon.

I glanced at it, feeling my pulse spike. The thing looked like it would collapse under the weight of a bicycle, let alone a van hurtling toward it at 80 miles per hour.

“Bret, you’re kidding, right?”

Bret shook his head, panic etched on his face. “No! No kidding! I swear it’s our only shot, Rowan! You gotta gun it!”

My foot slammed down on the gas pedal. The engine roared in protest as we hurtled toward the bridge. Behind us, the Russian mafia’s convoy kept closing in,...