Chapter 3 - The Cold Streets
The maintenance closet let them out into a rear alleyway, far from the front entrance where Tristan’s car was parked. He knew his vehicle was useless now—it was likely wired with a tracker or watched by Marcus’s personal cleaners.
The New York wind hit them like a wet towel across the face. Eli shivered violently against Tristan’s shoulder, his breathing now a constant, high-pitched whistle.
"We need a car," Tristan said, his eyes scanning the dark, trash-strewn alley.
"There's a delivery van that parks by the bakery on the corner," Clara said, her teeth chattering. "The driver leaves the keys under the sun visor while he loads the morning bread."
Tristan looked at her. "How do you know that?"
"I watch," she said simply. "When you're hungry, you learn when people leave things."
They broke into a run, Tristan shielding Eli from the biting wind with his heavy coat. The bakery van was exactly where Clara said it would be—a battered white Ford Econoline with the scent of yeast and flour clinging to the metal panels. Tristan shattered the driver's side window with the butt of his Glock, reached inside, pulled down the visor, and the keys clattered into his hand.
He tossed Clara into the back, laid Eli across the bench seat, and twisted the ignition. The engine sputtered, roared to life, and Tristan slammed the vehicle into drive just as a black SUV turned into the alley behind them, its high beams blinding in his rearview mirror.
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"Hold on," Tristan growled.
He floored the accelerator, the delivery van fishtailing on the icy asphalt as they tore out into the Brooklyn night, leaving the killers in the dark behind them.
