Shane drove the stolen beat-up Ford through the narrow back roads of the abandoned industrial zone for over ten minutes. Only when the distant sirens finally faded to nothing did he crank the wheel hard and pull into the rear lot of an old abandoned gas station, parking behind the buried fuel tanks.
"Okay, everybody out now."
"Lip, hug that laptop like it's your firstborn. Fiona, check yourself and every seat for anything that dropped—hair, buttons, anything that could point back to us."
Shane killed the engine, flicked on his flashlight, and started sweeping the driver's seat himself.
A minute later Fiona pushed open the door and stepped out on shaky legs. "We—we're not driving the rest of the way? We're still pretty far from the house."
Shane climbed out after finishing his check.
"Drive? In a car the cops already spotted and probably caught partial dash-cam footage of?
Wait till sunrise when they trace the traffic cameras to this area, find the car, then start running the plates—even if it's stolen—or pull fingerprints and hair we left behind, then line up at the Gallagher front door? That's called turning ourselves in, not escaping!"
While talking he yanked open the rear door and double-checked the back seat.
"Nothing. Alright, listen up," Shane pointed to a narrow path beside them.
"Follow the backup route I marked on the map. Cut through this abandoned lot, squeeze out through the hole in that corrugated metal wall at the back, then head south along the dirt trail next to the railroad tracks. You got the route memorized?"
Lip clutched the laptop to his chest and nodded hard.
Fiona swallowed thickly and nodded too.
"You two go first." Shane gave Fiona a light shove.
"I'll catch up. Remember—we've never seen this car, and we never left the house tonight. Move."
Fiona took one last look at Shane, then grabbed Lip's arm.
The two of them took off down the dark path and vanished quickly.
Shane watched them disappear, no hesitation left.
He popped the trunk, pretended to pull out two gas cans (straight from the app), and efficiently splashed the fuel everywhere inside the car, plus around the tires and hood.
Finally he tossed the empty cans back inside.
He backed up a safe fifteen meters, pulled out a kerosene lighter.
Click—
Flame sparked.
Shane flicked his wrist and lobbed the burning lighter straight at the gas-soaked Ford.
WHOOSH—!
The second it hit, orange-red flames exploded, swallowing the entire interior.
The fire licked through everything, igniting more fuel with a roaring whoosh.
BANG!
A bigger explosion ripped out as a massive fireball engulfed the whole car.
Thick black smoke billowed up, the orange glow lighting up the night sky like a beacon.
Once Shane was sure the car was fully consumed, he didn't look back. He took off in the same direction Lip and Fiona had gone.
On the other side, beside a dried-up riverbed, Frank slammed the smoking old Toyota down the steep bank and skidded to a crooked stop next to a pile of construction debris and old tires.
Cough—cough—
The engine died for good.
In the passenger seat Karen pressed a rag to the gash above her eyebrow, but blood kept soaking through, turning the cloth dark red.
Waves of dizziness, nausea, and ringing in her ears hit her; her vision was blurring.
"Come on, no time to zone out, you little psycho—"
Frank killed the ignition, but instead of checking the car or Karen's injury, he immediately started patting his pockets. He pulled out a handkerchief.
First he wiped down the steering wheel—every spot he or Karen might have touched—then the shifter, the inside door handles, everything they'd touched.
While wiping he yanked out the half-empty whiskey bottle from his jacket, unscrewed it, and poured some on the rag to keep cleaning.
"Wipe. You wipe too. Every surface we touched. Fingerprints, blood, all of it."
He growled at Karen, then dug out another rag, splashed some booze on it, and tossed it over.
"Alcohol breaks down proteins—makes it harder for those bastards to pull evidence."
Karen took the rag and started wiping her side of the door handle.
"Aren't we—aren't we supposed to get the hell out of here? The car's dead."
"Get out?"
Frank stopped and looked at her like she was brain-dead.
He pointed at the bleeding cut on her forehead, then at the fresh blood spots on the seat.
"Look at this, my dear little princess. Look at your one-of-a-kind DNA dripping fresh onto the seats of a stolen car. To the cops this is better than a signed confession.
And my prints?" Frank held up his hands.
"These ten old buddies are already on file in half the precincts in Chicago. One match and—boom—Frank Gallagher, old customer. Then they follow the trail straight to you, to Shane, and we're all fucked!"
Karen's heart sped up; she started scrubbing harder.
"So what do we do? Just wiping doesn't feel like enough—"
"What do we do?"
A spark of cleverness flashed in Frank's eyes.
"We make it like none of this ever happened. Magic trick—poof, evidence gone!"
Once Karen finished wiping, he poured the rest of the whiskey over the driver's seat and the passenger side where her blood was worst.
Then he made her get out first, move away from the car, and warned her not to drip any blood on the ground.
Frank climbed out, walked to the rear, and unscrewed the gas cap.
Lucky—the tank still had a decent amount left.
He grinned, went back inside, took out his pocket knife and sliced open the seat cushions, pulling out big chunks of foam.
He carried the foam to the gas tank, stuffed it in with a stick until it was soaked, then tossed the gasoline-drenched pieces back inside—especially on the bloody seats and floor.
"This car was borrowed anyway," Frank said as he stepped back beside Karen and pulled her a few more meters away.
"Now we're returning it—with interest, paid in flames."
Frank flicked his lighter, lit a small gasoline-soaked rag.
He snapped his wrist and flung the burning cloth straight at the gas tank opening.
BOOM!
It wasn't as explosive as Shane's full pour, but bright flames shot out from the tank and interior, spreading fast, igniting the soaked foam, upholstery, everything.
Thick smoke rose, stinking of burning plastic and fabric, and started catching the dry trash and weeds around the car.
"Let's go, let's go! Time to bounce!"
Frank grabbed the still-dazed Karen and started hustling up the riverbank.
"Fire's the best cleaner there is. The cleaner it burns, the less those uniform-wearing idiots can find."
Frank bragged about his expertise, already calculating: Saved the day plus arson—Shane's gotta owe me big now. Next month's booze money? Courtesy of fatherly love.
But then he tensed up again.
"We gotta move fast, my little ancestor. Arson's way worse than stealing a car or driving without a license combined! I know some back paths even stray dogs avoid that'll get us home safe. You still able to walk?"
"Hold it together. Soon as we're back I gotta patch that gash on your head, or when Shane sees you like this he'll knock out the rest of my teeth—"