"A Yakuza boss," I repeat.

                Veah glances at me, smoke-and-ash eyes bright under the California sun. The airport is in our rearview mirror. The open road is in front of us.

                There is nothing keeping me here. No handcuffs. No chains.

                There is nothing stopping me from going.

                 And yet. And yet. 

                 It took me all of ten minutes to get myself caught in the grip of the Yakuza. And now that they know who I am . . . now that they want me . . . I won't last another two minutes on my own.

                 I don't want to need Veah, but I do.

                 "A Yakuza boss," she agrees, and there is the faintest flicker of her jaw. A tensing—waiting for me to ask. To question her.

                  Maybe it's everything that has happened today alone.

                  Maybe it's the kiss or the contract or the text message I just sent Cassie.

                  All I can manage is, "What's your favourite food?"

                  I see the surprise, alight in her eyes. But she doesn't press me—and truth be told, I am doubting my sanity. Out of all the things I could have asked . . . what's your favourite food? 

                  "Makizushi," she says simply. 

                  "What is that?" 

                  "It's really good," she says, sounding . . . excited. "It's rice rolled into these thin sheets of nori seaweed. You have to try it—the perfect combination of crisp skin and flavoured rice."

                   "You'll have to take me some time, then," I say.

                    Why did I say that? 

                    Her mouth forms into a smile, but she keeps her eyes on the road.

                    "You mean, like a first date?" she says.

                    "No, like a second one," I say. "I thought getting chased by a horde of angry Japanese mobsters was already our first?"

                     A laugh slips out of her. "Then you must think I'm a real romantic."

                     "I do, believe me." Softer.

                      Her eyes slide to mine in the rearview mirror. Her full mouth is curved into a delicious grin, an unspoken promise in the air.

                      The tension between us grows blisteringly hot. My cheeks turn warm.

                       And then I scream, "Look out!"

                       Veah swerves the car just in time to avoid a truck barreling towards us—I am thrown towards the dashboard—the headlights flare, tires screeching against concrete—

                       "That would have been the second car accident I had with you!" I gasp. The seatbelt strap digs into my chest.

                       To no one's surprise, Veah seems entirely too calm. In control.

                        "Why are you not freaking out right now?" I demand.

                         Her face betrays no emotion, but there is bright, devouring alarm in her eyes. I follow her line of sight until I am twisting around—trying to get a better look of what's behind us.

                         "Quick question," I say breathlessly. "Why is that truck making a U-turn?"

                         The truck's tires skitter against the empty road. The entire compartment is shifting, arching, as it begins to spin itself back towards us.

                         "Maybe it's friendly," I say numbly. "Maybe it's checking if we're okay—"

                         Like a bull rearing its head, the truck's headlights become blinding. The engine vibrates. 

                         And then it begins hurtling towards us.

                         "Veah," I say. "I think the Yakuza might have found us."

                         I see a flash of Veah's white teeth as she grins. Slamming down on the gas pedal.

                         "You think?" she says, and this time, I am pitched back against the leather seat.

                          One of these days, I am going to throw up on her. She'll probably kill me, but it will be worth it.

                         "You're a maniac," I say breathlessly, "and I am never, ever going to let you drive again."

                        "Okay, no problem. When we're dead in a ditch somewhere, I'll let God know it was because you wanted to obey the speed limit."

                        "Great, then I'll wave to you while you're in hell and I'm in heaven. God will be very understanding of me following the rules."

                        "Last time I checked, obeying the speed limit wasn't one of the Ten Commandments."

                        "I don't think you've ever checked the Bible in your life."

                        "Good thing, because I think we're about to go way over the speed limit."

                        The car begins to pick up in speed, so fast the world around us is a blur—so fast I would not be surprised if we end up time traveling to 1955.

                        "Just so you know," I manage to shout, "not knowing the rules doesn't pardon you of them!"

                       Her voice rises higher than the whipping wind and the deafening roar of the engine. "I'm happy you have the right priorities!" 

                       "I always do!"

                       Veah keeps her foot on the gas pedal, leaning forward so she can see the road. I see grey on the horizon—a storm coming soon. 

                     "We're going to get out!" 

                     "We're going to do what?" 

                     She parks the car in a beach lot, sand billowing out against the windshield. We come to a halt so suddenly I know the seat belt against my neck is going to leave a bruise.

                    "Get out of the car!" she orders.

                    "So we can get run over?" I shriek.

                    I might be a little hysterical right now.

                    But Veah has saved me every single time—even against all odds—so I do. My shaking hand unbuckles my seatbelt and I unlock the car door, stumbling out onto the sand.

                   The truck isn't slowing down.

                   "The truck isn't slowing down," I inform Veah.

                   "It's not supposed to," she says grimly.

                   The beach here is windy. Abandoned by all tourists, thanks to the incoming storm. The ocean tugs at the shoreline viciously, and all that is in sight is a small outhouse and a lifeguard tower.

                  Nothing to shield us from the massive, ten-thousand pound truck that is currently not slowing down. 

                 Veah grabs my hand, so suddenly I don't protest.

                 "You have to trust me," she says.

                 "I—for what?"

                 The truck is close now. One hundred yards. 

                 "You have to trust me," she repeats urgently. "Please."

                 I look into her eyes. Slate and sky, fierce with determination.

                 Veah has never hurt me—on purpose. 

                 And maybe she set the Yakuza on my trail, but there is guilt etched into every line of her face for that.

                "I trust you," I whisper. "What do you want me to do?"

                "Stand there," she says. "And no matter what, don't move." 

                I don't give myself time to think. I just run.

                Sand lashes against my arms, my face, and I squint against the wind and the moisture of rain. The truck is fifty yards away.

               Forty.

               Veah is climbing onto the lifeguard tower.

               She's getting a better view for when the truck runs you over and leaves a Kaya-shaped hole in the beach, some dark voice whispers.

               I ignore it—I have to ignore it.

               The truck is forty—thirty—twenty yards away.

               My entire body begins to shake. The ocean is behind me, lapping against the shore. 

               The headlights are so close I feel their heat. I can see the driver. An Asian man with a handsome, twisted face.

               He is not going to stop. He is—not going to stop. 

               The only thing tethering me to the spot now is—is what? 

               I don't know that it's trust. I barely know Veah. But maybe it's faith—because she has not let me down yet.

               Even if, right now, I am the bait.

               You better have a plan, I think to Veah.

               From the corner of my eye, I see her training a sniper's rifle on—on the truck.

               She's going to blow up the damn truck. 

               The roar of the engine is so loud in my ears I can't hear anything. Can't think anything but, I'm going to die and it will be because of a pretty girl. 

             Ten yards. So close I can taste the kerosene.

              I can't believe I trusted her. I—

              "Come on!" She is suddenly right in front of me, so fast she is a blur, so fast she is inhuman. Her arms are around my waist and her body is against mine, throwing us so far to the side we are out of the reach of the truck.

             It is too late for the truck to stop.

             And as it hurtles headfirst into the crashing waves, I realize—it is on fire. 

            "You shot the gas tank," I say numbly. 

            Veah is on top of me, her sleek dark hair sprinkled with sand. Her eyes are wide and round and so, so bright with an emotion I can't name. Her hands are planted on either side of me, her chest against mine, and even in this moment—with the wind howling and the rain beginning to fall and the truck that is about to explode, I want to . . . to kiss her.

            Instead, I breathe, "We have to go now. When that truck explodes—"

            Veah is already on her feet, extending her hand.

            This time, I take it. There is no time to argue to logic of it—and I like the feel of her. Her hand against mine.

            Don't think about that. 

            Faster than I thought it was possible, we run.

            The rain falls now, streaking down my face. 

            The waves kiss our ankles, the sand wet and sticky.

            In the distance, I hear the crash and spark and sudden silence—

            "Don't look back," Veah says.

             I look back.

             At the explosion of heat and writhing smoke. The fire that dances on the waves of the black ocean. The shards of metal that plummet from the sky like fallen birds.

            The truck driver. He would have run me over. 

            But is this any way to die?

            "Come on," Veah says, but I shake my head.

            "I have to see," I whisper, and whatever she hears in my voice—whatever it is that is in my face—she listens. Her hand releases mine, but we stand side by side.

            Watching the world burn.

>>>

I think this qualified as an interesting and slightly deadly plan.

From the moon and back,
Sarai