The Fox

The Shark opened the door of the matte-grey Audi RS7, expecting the smell of gun oil and new leather. Instead, he was hit with the warm, humid scent of wet wipes and stale Cheerios.

"You're late,"

The Shark said, sliding in.

He saw the baby bump immediately. He paused, his hand on the door.

"You didn't mention the passenger," The Shark said, looking at her stomach.

The Fox turned to look at him. She wasn't the corporate driver type. She had a septum piercing, and a faded tattoo of a piston engulfed in flames ran up her neck. She wore a vintage Metallica t-shirt stretched tight over her seven-month baby bump.

She looked exhausted, like a mom who hadn't slept in a week, but her hands on the wheel were rock steady.

"He kicks when I hit 4,000 RPMs," the Fox said, her voice flat. "Don't worry. I'm charging you for two seats."

"Toddler wouldn't eat his dinosaur nuggets,"

The Fox said, her voice raspy. "And I had to stop for pickles. And dont be a jackass!"

The Shark checked the mirror. Three black SUVs tore around the corner, boxing them in against the curb.

"They're on us. Can you handl—"

The Fox cracked her knuckles. The tattoos on her fingers spelled R-I-O-T.

"I used to drift in Tokyo before I got knocked up," she grunted, shifting into gear. "I need fifty grand by morning, or the bank takes the house. So yeah, I can handle it."

She threw the shifter into reverse and slammed the gas. The Audi launched backward, smashing the grille of the lead SUV. CRUNCH. Before the other drivers could react, she whipped the wheel, executing a perfect J-turn. The sedan spun 180 degrees, tires screaming on the wet asphalt, until they were facing open road.

"Fifty grand!" she shouted, dropping the clutch. The car rocketed forward. "Or I'm out on the street!"

They tore down 5th Avenue at ninety miles an hour. The Fox didn't drive defensively; she drove like she was in a mosh pit. She cut the wheel hard right, slaloming between a garbage truck and a taxi, shearing the side mirror off the cab.

"You're reckless!" The Shark yelled, gripping the panic handle.

"I'm precise!" The Fox yelled back. "There's a difference!"

The lead SUV surged alongside them, trying to grind the Audi into a concrete divider. Sparks showered the windshield as metal screamed against metal.

"I need fifty grand by morning!"

she shouted, dropping the clutch. The car rocketed forward, pinning The Shark to the seat. "Or the bank takes the house!"

The lead SUV surged alongside them, trying to grind the Audi into a concrete divider.

The Fox gritted her teeth. Suddenly, her phone synced. She had been listening to Metallica, but the car's "Baby Mode" overrode it.

The Shark stared at the dashboard. "Is this a joke?"

"It stops the kicking!" The Fox screamed. "If I play metal, he starts moshing in my uterus!"

She slammed the brakes. The SUV, expecting her to speed up, shot past them. The Fox downshifted and punched the gas, tucking the Audi directly behind the SUV.

"I'm restructuring your debt!" The Shark yelled over the song.

They were coming up on a construction zone. The road narrowed to a single lane between jersey barriers. The SUV in front braked hard, trying to trap them.

"Hold on!" The Fox warned.

She didn't brake. She put the Audi's two right wheels up on the angled concrete barrier. The car tilted to forty-five degrees, grinding along the wall, slipping past the SUV in a gap that shouldn't have existed.

The SUV driver tried to follow, clipped the barrier, and barrel-rolled into a scaffolding tower with a deafening BOOM.

The Fox dropped the car back onto four wheels, the suspension groaning. She hit the straightaway to the airfield, leaving the chaos behind.

"You... you buy the house?" she asked.

"And you get a desk job," The Shark said. "Logistics Chief. Full benefits. Safe. Boring."

The Fox looked at him, adrenaline fading, hand resting on her stomach.

"I can listen to my own music?"

"You can blast Metallica all day long," The Shark promised. "Just get me to the plane."

The Fox smiled — a wicked, punk-rock grin. "Deal."