Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Pavement
The heavy SUV shuddered under a hail of high-velocity impacts. Clang-clang-clang! The sound of metal jacketed rounds striking the reinforced titanium plating echoed through the cabin like a rapid-fire drum solo.
“Keep driving!” Adrian roared, throwing his arm across Maya to pin her safely to the seat as the vehicle careened around a blind corner in the dimly lit underground tunnel.
“Blocked!” Grant yelled back, his pistol already drawn as he peered through the bullet-resistant windshield. “Two transport trucks have jackknifed across the exit lane. They’re boxing us in!”
In the rearview mirror, Maya caught a terrifying glimpse of two black vans speeding out of the shadows behind them, their headlights blazing, men leaning out of the passenger windows with automatic rifles raised.
“Get down!” Adrian ordered, grabbing Maya by the waist and pulling her down onto the floorboards between the seats, shielding her entire body beneath his broad shoulders.
“Adrian, your back—” she gasped, realizing he was completely exposed to the windows if the glass failed.
“Shut up and stay down,” he growled, pulling a heavy, custom-engraved 9mm pistol from a concealed shoulder holster with blinding speed.
The SUV came to a screeching, teeth-rattling halt as it slammed into a concrete pillar to avoid the blocked road. Glass exploded inward from the rear hatch as a barrage of bullets shredded the back window. The bodyguards in the rear seat returned fire instantly, the deafening cracks of gunfire filling the enclosed space with the sharp stench of cordite and burning gunpowder.
“Grant, blow the maintenance gate!” Adrian commanded, kicking open the rear door while keeping Maya pinned beneath him.
“On it!”
Grant fired a compact explosive charge at the side utility door embedded in the tunnel wall. A muffled boom rattled the concrete rafters, and the steel door blew inward, revealing a narrow drainage corridor leading toward the Chicago River docks.
“Move, move, move!” Grant shouted, laying down suppression fire with his submachine gun while backing out of the passenger side.
Adrian hauled Maya to her feet. She was pale, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but her maternal instinct overrode her fear. She gripped his hand tightly as he dragged her out of the smoking SUV and into the damp, dark maintenance corridor.
Gunfire echoed behind them. One of Adrian’s bodyguards stumbled out of the SUV, clutching a bleeding shoulder, but kept firing to cover their retreat.
“Down this way,” Adrian instructed, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim emergency lighting of the drainage tunnel. He moved with lethal efficiency, one hand holding Maya’s wrist, the other keeping his weapon raised and ready.
They ran for nearly five hundred yards through the echoing concrete pipe before the tunnel opened up into a private, subterranean boat slip along the riverbank. A sleek, high-speed Riva motorboat sat rocking gently against the dark water, its engine idling quietly.
A lone man stood waiting on the dock—young, nervous, holding the ignition keys aloft.
“Boss! Thank God,” the operative panted. “The perimeter’s compromised. We have to move right now.”
Adrian pushed Maya into the passenger cabin of the boat, leaping in right behind her. Grant and the two injured bodyguards piled in seconds later, and the young operative slammed the throttle forward.
The boat surged out of the slip and onto the gray expanse of the Chicago River, cutting through the dark water like a knife.
Maya sat huddled on the leather bench seat, shivering slightly from the damp chill of the river wind. Her cream-colored dress was stained with soot from the tunnel explosion, and her hair was plastered against her forehead.
Adrian sat beside her, his weapon finally holstered. He reached over, unbuttoning his expensive, ruined suit jacket, and wrapped it gently around her shoulders.
“You’re freezing,” he said softly.
Maya didn't reject it this time. She pulled the warm fabric tight around herself, staring out at the passing industrial skyline of the city she had tried so desperately to leave.
“Who was that?” she asked, her voice dangerously calm. “Who was trying to kill us back there?”
May you like
Adrian looked out over the dark water, his expression hardening into stone.
“Viktor Vance,” he said coldly. “My former partner. The man who thinks he can take over the Chicago Syndicate by cutting off my head—and my bloodline.”
