Chapter 225

Jacob's Perspective The red Mustang was a sweet ride, but it was a beacon. We got off the main highway as fast as possible, twisting and turning into the grimy streets of a neighborhood that practically screamed "unfriendly." Graffiti, a broken basketball hoop, and a few kids in baggy clothes leaning against walls, their eyes tracking us with wary suspicion. Classic local gang turf. "Wait here," I told Celena, pushing the car door open. For situations like this, a werewolf's direct approach worked better than anything. I didn't waste time. I walked straight up to the one who looked like the leader. A combination of cash and some "gentle" physical persuasion—like casually bending a discarded fire hydrant out of shape—quickly secured us an older, unremarkable-looking Chevy sedan. Its engine sounded solid. Gray, utterly forgettable. Perfect. Back on the road, we headed for the neighboring state. As the miles stretched out, the tension in