Chapter 6 - The Trap on the Bridge
The armored sedan surged forward, the supercharged engine roaring as it fought against the weight of the steel plating.
But the Marcone SUVs were lighter, faster. The second vehicle pulled alongside me, its tinted passenger window rolling down to reveal the black, stubby barrel of an automatic weapon.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
A hail of high-velocity rounds slammed into my driver's side window. The reinforced bulletproof glass spiderwebbed instantly, a network of white cracks blooming across my vision, but the steel-core reinforcement held.
I ducked my head, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I need an exit, Marcus!" I yelled into the mic.
"The construction barrier at the end of the bridge!" Marcus shouted back. "There’s a temporary bypass lane on the right! Use the armored bumper to clear the barricade!"
I didn't hesitate.
I cut the wheel sharply to the right. The heavy sedan veered across three lanes of traffic, its tires screaming against the wet asphalt as I aimed the nose of the vehicle directly at the bright orange water-filled plastic barriers blocking the closed lane.
The lead Marcone SUV tried to follow, but its driver was moving too fast. He couldn't make the turn.
The SUV slammed into the concrete divider at sixty miles an hour, the front end crumpling like paper as a ball of orange fire erupted from beneath its hood.
I hit the plastic barriers at fifty.
The impact was like hitting a wall of solid ice. The airbags didn't deploy—Marcus’s team had disabled them for the run—but the force of the collision slammed my chest hard against the seatbelt, knocking the wind from my lungs.
The sedan plowed through the barriers, sending a cascade of water and orange plastic flying into the air before sliding to a halt in the empty, rain-swept construction zone.
Behind me, the second Marcone SUV screeched to a halt, its doors flying open as three men in tactical gear stepped out, their weapons raised.
I scrambled to open my door, my body aching from the impact, but before I could step out onto the wet concrete, the high-pitched, rhythmic squeal of tires echoed from the bridge exit.
Three unmarked black vans drifted into the construction zone, blocking the exit.
The doors slid open, and a dozen men in Moretti security uniforms—led by Marcus—stepped out, their weapons already raised and firing.
The construction zone erupted into a brief, violent firefight.
I crawled beneath the dashboard of the sedan, my hands covering my head as the sound of shattering glass and automatic gunfire filled the air.
Within thirty seconds, the gunfire stopped.
The only sound left was the steady, rhythmic patter of the rain against the cracked windshield of my car.
The passenger door opened.
Marcus stood there, his black trench coat soaked with rain, a smoking rifle held loosely in his right hand. He looked down at me, a wide, relieved grin spreading across his massive face.
"You drive like a demon, Miss Ward," he said, extending a hand to help me up.
I took his hand, my legs slightly shaky as I stepped out into the cold rain.
"Is it over?" I asked.
"The Marcone team is neutralized," Marcus said, pointing to the two SUVs. "And the federal agents who were following the tracker just got redirected to a warehouse in Brooklyn where we left the decoy transmitter."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box, handing it to me.
"Mr. Moretti wanted to make sure you had this."
I opened the box.
May you like
Inside was a heavy brass key ring, and a small, embossed card that read:
WARD HAUTE COUTURE.
