The convoy is barely holding together. Vehicles realign into a staggered formation, drivers barking orders over the comms as they recover from the chaos. I hover above the road, scanning the highway ahead for signs of another ambush, but my gut tells me I don't need to look far. They're coming back. Of course they're coming back.

A sharp crack splits the air--gunfire. Peregrine dives low, her wings cutting through the air as she tracks the stolen convoy truck. The jagged hole in its side flashes like a beacon under the headlights, a clean-edged rectangle that tells me someone planned for this. Inside, I catch a glimpse of Pink Suit--small, round, and terrifyingly calm--shouting orders from the driver's seat. Beside her, the SWAT passenger leans out of the window, rifle in hand, lining up a shot.

"Taking fire!" Peregrine snaps over the comms. "Passenger seat of the stolen truck--someone's got a rifle!"

"Focus on dodging," Cryptid growls. "We'll handle it."

"I'm fine," Peregrine retorts, but there's tension in her voice. She banks sharply to avoid another shot, the bullet whizzing past her wingtip.

The stolen truck swerves violently, and for a moment, my eyes are drawn to the gaping hole in its side. A lithe figure crouches just inside, her dark hair whipping in the wind. She reaches out, her fingertips brushing the frame of a nearby convoy SUV.

The SUV jerks as if yanked by an invisible hand, its rear wheels lifting off the ground. Time slows as it tips, its weight shifting unnaturally before it flips completely, hurtling through the air like a toy. The headlights spin wildly, and the world tilts with it.

I'm already moving, the charge in my body surging as I push myself faster. My arms lock around the airborne SUV, the electromagnetic field snapping into place as I brace against the momentum. The weight is staggering--a ton of metal and glass hurtling at freeway speeds--but I grind my teeth, forcing it to stop. The impact radiates through me like a shockwave, but I hold firm, easing the SUV to the ground as carefully as I can.

"Rodney, another one!" Basilisk's voice cuts through the comms, sharp with urgency.

I glance up just in time to see the figure--Ballerina, I decide--reaching out again. Her fingertips graze another SUV, and it flips just as violently, its center of gravity shifting like a puppet on strings. I catch sight of her slipping back inside the truck, disappearing into the shadows as if nothing had happened.

The convoy erupts into chaos.

Headlights flood the highway as a swarm of stolen vehicles emerges from the darkness. Cars and trucks barrel toward us, their drivers aiming straight for the convoy like battering rams. Sporadic gunfire cracks through the air, low-caliber rounds sparking off the reinforced convoy trucks. A heavy-duty pickup roars into the fray, its front bumper reinforced with a crude metal plow. It slams into the side of an escort vehicle, sending it skidding off the road.

"Hold formation!" Cryptid barks, his voice sharp over the comms. "Focus on the rammers!"

I dive again, intercepting a speeding sedan before it can slam into the rear truck. My fists crackle with energy as I hit the hood, shoving it off-course and sending it skidding into the guardrail. The driver barely has time to react before the car crams itself against the metal, and his airbag deploys. Phew.

Inside the stolen truck, Pink Suit jerks the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle like a battering ram of her own. It cuts dangerously close to the convoy, forcing two SWAT vehicles to swerve. The rogue SWAT passenger takes another shot, this time aiming at Peregrine. The shot misses, but just barely.

"Take her out!" I shout into the comms, my voice taut with urgency.

"Working on it!" Peregrine snaps, darting between vehicles as she tries to close the gap. Her focus is split--dodging bullets and keeping pace with the stolen truck. "Watch it! Friendly fire!"

The convoy vehicles scramble to avoid collisions, and I spot the rogue SWAT passenger leaning out again, rifle raised. Basilisk's voice buzzes in my ear. "Rodney, we're losing control. Focus!"

"I'm trying!" I snap back, my muscles straining as I catch another flipped vehicle, this time a police cruiser, and shove it back into a stable position. The driver inside gives me a shaky thumbs-up before accelerating to rejoin the convoy.

Ahead, Pink Suit glances into her side mirror, her face set with cold determination. Beside her, the SWAT passenger barks something I can't hear, their voice lost in the chaos. The hole in the truck's side flashes again, and Ballerina emerges just enough to press her hand to the frame of another escort vehicle. The truck flips, its front axle snapping as it tumbles onto its side, blocking half the highway.

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"Basilisk, can you deal with her?" I shout, frustration bleeding into my voice.

"Not unless she comes outside," Basilisk replies, her tone clipped. "She's using the hole as cover."

Cryptid's voice cuts in, steady but urgent. "Basilisk, focus on the field. Rodney, keep the convoy moving. I'll get her through the walls."

"Got it," I reply, gritting my teeth. I don't want to think about what an anti-materiel round will do to a human body like that, but I also don't want to think about the mayhem Mr. Nothing and Mr. Mudslide will cause if they get out. The stolen truck veers closer, its driver weaving through the chaos with terrifying precision. Every time I move to intercept, they slip just out of reach. This isn't random. It's surgical.

Behind me, gunfire erupts again as the criminal horde closes in. Stolen vehicles slam into the convoy like battering rams, the impact rippling through the formation. I spot a delivery van weaving erratically, its driver aiming for the rear truck. My fists crackle with energy as I intercept it, slamming the van off-course and sending it skidding into the median.

The convoy is falling apart.

Vehicles swerve and skid, the scattered headlights painting streaks of light across the asphalt. Ballerina doesn't just aim for our trucks anymore--she's taking down her own side too, flipping stolen cars like she's rearranging chess pieces. One slams into the convoy's lead SUV, forcing it into a sharp turn that nearly topples it. Another careens toward me mid-air.

Is she insane? She's going to hurt someone! On her own side, too!

I twist, the electromagnetic field humming around me as I brace for impact. The flipped car crashes into my outstretched arms, the force rattling through my body like a gong. I catch it, but the effort leaves me open, and a second vehicle slams into my side.

"Clear the path, Plasma!" Cryptid's voice roars in my ear, sharp and commanding. "We'll handle the stragglers!"

I shove the wreckage away, sending it spinning off to the side before lowering the first car to the ground. My vision blurs for a second, and I force myself to focus. Basilisk's field is still holding, keeping us off ESP grids, but it's not enough. There are too many moving pieces, too many threats closing in.

Ahead, Ballerina's stolen truck zigzags between the chaos, the hole in its side flashing like a warning. Cryptid takes aim from the armored truck's roof, the anti-materiel rifle braced against his body and set to the ground. The first shot tears through the stolen vehicle's rear quarter-panel, the impact throwing sparks into the air, and Cryptid's body visibly clenches up with recoil - so too, for that matter, does the car, gently swaying back and forth before the driver compensates.

"Direct hit," Cryptid mutters, already lining up another shot.

CRAK!

The rifle thunders again, and the round punches a hole clean through the truck's side. But it's not enough. The other vehicle swerves, the driver--the SWAT imposter--adjusting effortlessly to keep it moving, spinning the wheel like mad and laughing like a maniac. Mind control? Must be. Ballerina reappears in the gap, reaching out to flip another SUV with terrifying precision.

"They're not stopping!" Peregrine shouts over the comms. "What's the play?"

I glance back, my mind racing. If we keep this up, the convoy will be completely overrun. We're losing trucks, losing cohesion. I grit my teeth, making a decision.

"Pull back!" I yell. "Regroup and protect the cargo. I'll clear the path."

"You can't do this alone," Cryptid snaps, his voice as sharp as the crack of his rifle.

"I don't have a choice!" I shoot back, diving toward another flipped vehicle. My arms lock around its chassis, the electromagnetic charge surging as I haul it out of the convoy's path. "Get the others out of here!"

The comms erupt in arguments, but I don't have time to sort them out. Another wave of flipped cars barrels toward the convoy, forcing me into a desperate rhythm of intercept, catch, and redirect. My muscles burn, the electromagnetic hum in my body growing erratic as I push myself harder than ever before.

And then I feel it--a shift in the air, a faint ripple against my skin. Something's wrong.

Before I can react, something wet and heavy slams into my back. It engulfs me, wrapping around my torso and neck with a sickening, gelatinous squelch. I stumble mid-air, the charge in my body flickering as the substance invades every inch of my senses.

"What the--?" My words choke off as the goo forces its way into my throat, cutting off my air. I claw at it, my fingers slipping uselessly against its slimy surface. My enhanced strength means nothing--it's like trying to punch water.

"Rodney?" Basilisk's voice crackles in my ear, distant and distorted. "What's happening?"

I can't answer. My lungs burn as the gelatinous mass tightens around me, every movement drawing it deeper into my throat. My vision blurs, dark spots blooming at the edges as I struggle to stay conscious.

I crash into the highway shoulder, the impact sending a shockwave through my body. My electromagnetic field dampens most of it, but the goo doesn't loosen its grip. It pulses, shifting like it's alive, and my mind races, piecing together the only explanation.

The rogue SWAT. They took over driving. That means this must be Pink Suit.

I almost feel proud of myself, for a moment, for the deductive reasoning. Then, reality meets me facefirst.

I slam my fist into the ground, trying to push myself upright, but my strength is fading. The air grows thinner, the world dimming around me. The convoy noise fades into the distance, replaced by the sickening squelch of the gelatin tightening its hold.

Somewhere in the haze, I feel the goo shift. It peels away, retreating like a predator satisfied with its kill. My lungs heave as I gasp for air, the cold night air searing against my throat. My vision clears just enough to see the blob-like mass slither away, disappearing into the chaos.

The last thing I hear before the darkness claims me is the rumble of engines, the sound of the convoy moving further and further out of reach.