Chapter 7 - The Mojave Pursuit
The speedometer needle swept past ninety-five, then a hundred, the heavy SUV clinging to the asphalt curves of Route 95 with four-wheel precision.
In the rearview mirror, the trailing vehicle—a dark, unbranded Ford pickup truck with its grill completely obscured by mud—refused to drop back. Instead, it accelerated aggressively, its front bumper weaving dangerously close to the Cayenne’s rear quarter-panel as the driver tried to force her off the shoulder and into the rocky desert scrub.
Tap the satellite uplink, Nora told herself, keeping her eyes fixed on the winding road ahead.
With her right hand, she reached blindly across the center console, hitting the emergency speed-dial button wired directly into the encrypted corporate network.
The call connected instantly through the satellite relay.
“Marcus,” Nora said sharply over the howling roar of the wind and engine.
“Boss!” Marcus’s voice came through the Bluetooth speaker, instantly alert and strained with tension. “We’ve been monitoring your vehicle diagnostic beacon. Your GPS shows an erratic velocity spike on Route 95 south. What’s going on?”
“I’m being tailed by an unmarked pickup truck,” Nora said, downshifting manually through the steering wheel paddles as she took a sharp curve around a rocky outcropping. “They just tried to run me off the road. Track my coordinates and patch me through to the Arizona Highway Patrol dispatch immediately.”
“On it!” Marcus barked. “Hang on, Nora—who’s behind it? Is it Declan’s crew?”
“Unlikely,” Nora replied, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white as the truck behind her slammed its front bumper directly into her rear towing hitch with a metallic bang.
The impact sent a violent shudder through the frame of the Cayenne, but the all-wheel-drive system compensated instantly, keeping the vehicle straight.
“That wasn't Declan’s style,” Nora muttered, glancing at her side mirror. “That was professional.”
In the brief flash of illumination as the truck pulled alongside her to attempt a side-swipe, Nora caught a glimpse through the tinted passenger window of the driver.
It wasn't a random highway thug. It wasn't one of Declan’s low-level enforcers.
The man gripping the steering wheel of the truck, his face half-hidden beneath a baseball cap in the dim dashboard light, was Kincaid—the very same enforcer who had beaten and threatened Sadie Miller in the Calumet warehouse just days ago.
Kincaid? Nora’s mind raced. Miller said he put him on a container ship bound for South America.
Which meant someone with high-level access inside Callum Russo’s syndicate—or someone paying off the right dockworkers—had intercepted the exile order before Kincaid ever left the Chicago port.
The truck surged forward again, its heavy steel bumper grinding violently against the side panel of Nora’s Cayenne, showering sparks across the asphalt as Kincaid tried to force her toward a steep rocky embankment on the right side of the highway.
“Marcus!” Nora shouted over the deafening screech of grinding metal. “Kincaid is still in the country! He’s running a hit squad out here in the Mojave!”
“Hold on!” Marcus yelled back through the static. “I’m routing satellite coordinates to the Highway Patrol and patching in Callum Russo’s security detail right now! Russo’s people are already operating in the Southwest region!”
May you like
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Kincaid’s truck veered sharply, smashing its front end directly into the driver’s side door of the Cayenne with bone-jarring force.
The side airbag exploded outward with a loud concussive pop, filling the cabin with white powder and smoke as Nora lost control of the steering wheel. The SUV careened off the paved shoulder, kicking up massive clouds of dust and gravel as it skidded wildly toward a deep, dry desert wash.
