Chapter 3 - Fire on the Highway
Gunfire erupted behind us like a string of firecrackers bursting against sheet metal.
Sparks showered from our rear trunk as high-caliber rounds slammed harmlessly against the reinforced armored plating of the sedan.
"Get on the floor!" Lorenzo ordered, his heavy arm shooting across the cabin, shoving my shoulders down until my forehead touched the carpeted floorboards between our seats.
I curled into a ball, my hands covering my ears, gasping for breath as the car swerved violently around a line of civilian vehicles. The engine roared like a caged animal, throwing my body against Lorenzo’s polished dress shoes.
"Dante, take the Queensboro bridge lower ramp," Lorenzo commanded calmly into the speaker. "Engage the rear deployers."
"Understood, boss!"
A mechanical hiss sounded beneath the chassis. Through the rearview mirror mounted on the ceiling, I caught a glimpse of a thick cloud of dense tactical smoke and steel spike strips discharging behind our bumper.
The lead chase SUV struck the spikes at eighty miles an hour. Its front tires exploded in twin bursts of white smoke, sending the heavy vehicle spinning out of control until it slammed into the highway concrete barrier, bursting into an enormous fireball that illuminated the rainy sky.
The second vehicle backed off slightly, but two masked gunmen leaned out of the passenger windows, unleashing continuous rifle fire toward our glass.
Lorenzo pressed a button on the door console, lowering his side window by two inches—just enough to create an opening in the bulletproof laminate.
He didn't panic. He took two deep, measured breaths, raised his weapon, and fired four synchronized rounds through the crack into the driving rain.
A split second later, the second chase vehicle’s windshield spiderwebbed with four tight bullet holes directly in the driver’s sightline. The SUV veered wildly, clipped a streetlight pole, and collapsed onto its side, grinding along the wet pavement in a shower of sparks.
Lorenzo closed the window with a quiet mechanical click, holstered his weapon, and reached down to pull me up from the floor.
"It's over," he said softly, lifting me back onto the leather seat.
I was shaking so violently my teeth clattered together. My fingernails dug into the fabric of his trousers as I gasped for air, staring at the shattered highway retreating behind us.
"You killed them," I whispered, horrified.
"I removed an obstacle," Lorenzo replied, brushing a strand of damp hair from my forehead with fingers that were remarkably warm and steady. "They came to execute a twenty-four-year-old nursing student to cover their tracks. They got what they negotiated for."
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The sedan turned off the highway, entering an industrial sector of Brooklyn lined with towering razor-wire fences and private maritime warehouses.
A pair of massive wrought-iron gates swung open automatically as our headlights swept across the private compound, closing shut behind us with a definitive, inescapable thud.
