Chapter 7 - The Proving Grounds
The darkness inside the abandoned tunnel was suffocating, broken only by the two piercing yellow beams of the Coronado’s Marchal headlamps.
Water droplets dripped from cracked concrete overhead, splashing against the windshield as the V12 engine screamed at seven thousand RPM. The speedometer needle climbed steadily: eighty, ninety, one hundred and ten miles per hour.
""The tunnel curves sharply to the left in six hundred yards!"" Vivian yelled over the deafening mechanical roar. ""It exits onto the old skidpad behind the main engineering campus!""
""I can't slow down!"" I shouted back, fighting the heavy, non-power steering wheel as the car danced over uneven pavement. ""The brakes are cold iron discs! If I stomp them now, they’ll lock up and spin us into the wall!""
Behind us, two sets of high-intensity LED searchlights burst into the tunnel entrance. Preston's security team was in hot pursuit, driving modified tactical pickups equipped with heavy steel push bumpers.
A heavy truck surged up behind us, its bull-bar slamming violently into the Coronado’s rear bumper. The impact sent the classic car sideways, its tail whipping toward the curved concrete wall.
My hands moved on pure instinct. I counter-steered hard into the slide, feathering the throttle with micro-adjustments, feeling the chassis balance on the very edge of adhesion. The rear fender skimmed within inches of the tunnel wall, showering the darkness in an arc of orange sparks, before snapping back into a straight line.
""Hang on!"" I barked.
Up ahead, a slab of rusted corrugated sheet metal blocked the tunnel exit. Beyond it lay the blinding white expanse of the outdoor proving grounds.
I shifted into third gear and floored the accelerator.
The Coronado burst through the metal siding like a bullet through paper, exploding out into the sub-zero Wisconsin winter. A blinding blizzard lashed across the windshield as we hit the open tarmac of the circular testing track.
The tactical truck behind us tried to follow our line, but its driver misjudged the transition from dry concrete to slick packed snow. The heavy pickup lost traction, spun violently out of control, and flipped over twice, rolling into a deep drainage ditch in a cloud of snow and shattered glass.
""One down!"" Harris called out from the back, clutching his bruised shoulder.
""We have another problem!"" Vivian shouted, pointing toward the main gate ahead.
The main administrative building of Blackridge was fully lit. Blocking the primary security gate were two black armored sedans, their high beams trained directly on us. Standing in front of the gate, flanked by private security, was a man in an expensive camel-hair coat—Heinrich Vance, the owner of Vance Tactical.
To our right was the main highway leading back to the interstate. To our left was the executive helipad, where a twin-engine corporate helicopter sat idling, its rotor blades slowly beginning to turn.
""They're preparing to fly the buyers out!"" Vivian shouted, looking at her phone as it regained a satellite signal. ""The syndicates have couriers on that chopper! If they leave with Preston's pre-signed power of attorney, they can file the asset transfer in Zurich before we can get an injunction!""
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""They aren't going anywhere,"" I said, my voice cold as ice.
I grabbed the mechanical handbrake, spun the steering wheel, and initiated a four-wheel drift across the snow-covered tarmac, swinging the Coronado's nose directly toward the helipad.
