Movement
One

The Ferrari idled at a red light, rumbling like something alive. Solène connected her phone, tapped a number on CarPlay, and leaned back as a familiar voice answered.

“Kid, I’m busy. Can I call you—”

“Vic,” she cut in. “Clear some space for me.”

“Sol, the last three cars you brought me were straight duds—”

“I got you an exotic this time.”

“What kind?”

“The Italian kind,” she said, tapping the gas and unleashing the engine’s roar.

Victor whistled. “Yeah, that’s a ’rari. I’ll roll the red carpet out.”

“That’s more like it.”

She hung up and threw a lazy smile at a car full of kids gawking at her through their window.

Suddenly, the name Behind You flashed across the screen, followed by the faint ring of an incoming call.

Startled and confused, Solène glanced down at her phone. The mysterious caller was reaching out directly. Should she answer? She scanned the road behind her through the rearview mirror. A few trucks and cars trailed behind, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The light turned green, and with a swift press of the accelerator, she sped off, ignoring the call and instead typing the location of Victor’s shop into her GPS.

Two miles later, she stopped at another red light and began rifling through the car for anything valuable. She found a nice bottle of cologne in the center console, next to a gold Rolex. “Ah, luxury,” she grinned, slipping on the watch and spraying a little cologne on her neck. “I could get used to this.”

Just as she settled back, the screen lit up again. This time, the name read, Still Behind You! Solène ‘s heart skipped a beat as she quickly rolled her window down and leaned out, scanning the road behind her. At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary—just a few cars, a couple of trucks, all humming along in the same predictable rhythm.

But then, a motorcyclist dressed entirely in black appeared, weaving through traffic with alarming precision, their black motorcycle cutting through the lanes like a shadow. They were heading straight toward her, moving faster than the other vehicles, and the unease in Solène’s gut deepened.

Solène’s hand moved instinctively to the phone button on the steering wheel., hesitating for just a moment before answering.

The voice on the other end was feminine, low, and smooth, but laced with urgency. “If you want to make it to Victor’s shop, don’t hang up.”

A chill ran through Solène as the words sunk in. Her grip tightened on the wheel. Who was this person? And how did they know where she was going?

Her breath caught in her throat. Without a second thought, she ended the call and threw her foot on the accelerator, ignoring the red light as she sped through it.

The engine roared as she veered into a side street, heart racing. She glanced at the rearview mirror—there, still behind her, the motorcyclist closing in fast. Panic surged, and Solène pushed the car harder up, determined to outrun whatever this was.

Solène’s hands clenched tighter around the wheel as she raced down the narrow alley, the sound of the Ferrari’s engine reverberating off the surrounding walls. The alley was barely wide enough for the car, the tires scraping the edges of the cobblestones, but Solène’s skill was unmatched. She threw the car into a sharp right turn, narrowly avoiding a dumpster, and then pushed the gas harder, seeking refuge from the street lights and the constant sense of someone on her tail.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she refused to look in the rearview. She knew what was behind her. She could hear the motorcycle’s engine revving with terrifying proximity, the sound of it weaving through traffic, closing in despite her best efforts. A few seconds later, the name Faydra flashed across her screen again, a sudden ring vibrating through the car’s speakers.

Solène threw the Ferrari into a sharp left, then right again, speeding past a row of beachfront houses. Suddenly, a ping sounded from the car’s console. A text message. The screen blinked to life, and Solène’s eyes flitted across the words. Before she could react, a synthetic voice broke the tense silence, soft but insistent. Would you like this message to be read aloud to you?

Solène cursed under her breath but didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she muttered, her eyes darting to the road ahead. She had no time to waste, no time to think. The motorcyclist was closer now, visible in her peripheral vision, the black leather jacket flashing like a shadow.

The car’s stereo crackled to life, the voice smooth and calculated. “Hi, my name is Faydra. I didn’t mean to scare you, but we do not have much time. The owner of the car that you are in has already called the cops and reported his missing car. On top of that, his car has a tracking device that I can disable, but I need to be close to your car for about a good two minutes. If you pull over, I can disable the device and you can be on your way.”

A tracking device! She could feel the weight of the situation closing in around her. If Faydra was telling the truth, her plan to take the Ferrari to Victor’s shop was already compromised. But if she was lying, Solène risked getting robbed—or worse, killed—by this stranger. She paused for a few seconds, her mind racing. What could Faydra possibly gain by helping her and sending her on her way? Nothing. There had to be more to this than she was letting on. 

Solène’s gaze snapped to the road ahead. A sign appeared on the right, its white letters directing her toward the highway that would take her straight to Victor’s shop. But just a few hundred feet ahead, partially obscured by a row of palm trees, she noticed a small parking lot. It was tucked away, hidden from view, and might just be her best shot at pulling off the risky move the stranger had suggested.

Her foot hovered over the gas pedal, indecision gnawing at her. The highway felt like the safer choice but the nagging thought of that tracker—of the cops already being alerted—kept her on edge. 

Without another thought, Solène veered toward the parking lot, her tires screeching against the pavement as she cut the wheel. The engine roared in protest as she navigated the narrow entrance, trying to stay calm despite the sharp beat of her pulse.

The motorcyclist followed, sliding into the lot behind her. Solène threw the Ferrari into park, barely registering the space she’d landed in. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her breath shallow as she scanned the lot. The motorcyclist was dismounting, moving toward her with precise, calculated steps. Her mind screamed at her to keep driving, but it was too late. She had made her choice. Now, she could only hope she hadn’t made a fatal mistake.