Avi walked over, boots crunching on gravel. She tapped Tara’s window with a single knuckle. “The pass is rigged. Three switchbacks, dynamite on the second. Someone wants the Queen dead before the finish.”

Holly leaned across Tara, knife blade catching moonlight. “Why should we trust you?”

Tara unlocked the door. “Get in. But if you cross us, Avi, I’ll put you in the dirt next to the dynamite.”

“I see her.” Tara cut the engine. The silence was louder than the roar.

Holly laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “And what do I get out of babysitting?”

“She’s not moving,” Holly whispered.

Tara said nothing. She just drove, faster now, the road queen and her uneasy court racing toward a sunrise none of them might live to see. Because on Road Queen , the final twist wasn’t the explosion—it was what came after the finish line.

sat in the driver’s seat of her ’69 Charger, knuckles white. She was the veteran, the Queen Mother of the asphalt circuit—gravel-voiced, calm, and dangerous. Beside her, Holly West thumbed a switchblade open and shut, her sharp grin never reaching her eyes. Holly was the loose cannon, the one who’d rather burn a bridge than cross it.

Tara studied her. A liar’s face, a thief’s hands—but honest eyes. “What’s your play?”

The desert highway unspooled like a cracked black ribbon under a bleached sky. Season 3 of Road Queen had been a bloodbath—territory wars, broken alliances, a sheriff who played both sides. Now, the final run for the season’s prize (a clean title to a garage in Santa Fe and enough cash to disappear) was down to four.

And Avi hadn’t mentioned the second bomb. The one in the garage.

stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the hood of a matte-black interceptor. No crew. No backup. Just a long coat and a stare that said, I know where you sleep. Avi was the wildcard this season—a former dispatcher turned rogue fixer, playing no team but her own.

Their headlights caught a silhouette in the middle of the road.