“She’s not moving,” Holly whispered.
Tara said nothing. She just drove, faster now, the road queen and her uneasy court racing toward a sunrise none of them might live to see. Because on Road Queen , the final twist wasn’t the explosion—it was what came after the finish line.
And Avi hadn’t mentioned the second bomb. The one in the garage.
“Let me ride shotgun. We take the old mining road. Dusty, slow, but alive. At the junction, we split the prize—the cash to Holly, the garage to you, the routes to me.” Road Queen 11 S3 Tara Lynn Foxx Holly West Avi
Holly leaned across Tara, knife blade catching moonlight. “Why should we trust you?”
Avi walked over, boots crunching on gravel. She tapped Tara’s window with a single knuckle. “The pass is rigged. Three switchbacks, dynamite on the second. Someone wants the Queen dead before the finish.”
stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the hood of a matte-black interceptor. No crew. No backup. Just a long coat and a stare that said, I know where you sleep. Avi was the wildcard this season—a former dispatcher turned rogue fixer, playing no team but her own. “She’s not moving,” Holly whispered
Avi slid into the back, silent as a shadow. The Charger growled to life, veering off the main highway onto a forgotten trail of rock and moonlit dust. Behind them, three miles back, the second switchback erupted in a ball of orange fire—right where they would have been.
Holly looked at Avi in the rearview. “Okay. Maybe we keep you.”
Their headlights caught a silhouette in the middle of the road. Because on Road Queen , the final twist
Avi smiled. “You get to not explode.”
Holly laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “And what do I get out of babysitting?”
Tara unlocked the door. “Get in. But if you cross us, Avi, I’ll put you in the dirt next to the dynamite.”
“I see her.” Tara cut the engine. The silence was louder than the roar.
Avi’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Because I want the title. Not the garage. The title . Tara Lynn Foxx, you win this, you go clean. I win, I control the routes from Vegas to the border. But if you die? Some desk jockey from the city takes over. No one wants that.”