Chapter 7 - The Ambush at the Pier
Before we could reach the Drake Hotel, the beast made one final, desperate thrash.
Our motorcade—two security SUVs escorting Rhys’s armored Maybach—cruised through the snow-slicked streets toward the Gold Coast. Outside, the blizzard was howling off Lake Michigan, coating the skyscrapers in sheets of ice.
As we crossed the lower level of the Michigan Avenue bridge, headlights suddenly blinded us from an intersecting service alley.
A heavy cement-mixing truck rammed into the lead security SUV at sixty miles an hour, sending it spinning across the frozen asphalt in a shower of sparks and shattered glass.
“Ambush!” Miller shouted from the front passenger seat, drawing his weapon as our driver slammed on the brakes, sending the Maybach into a controlled slide.
Behind us, two black vans screeched to a halt, cutting off our retreat. Ten men in black tactical gear and ski masks spilled out, carrying automatic rifles.
“Stay down, Isadora!” Rhys barked, shoving me onto the floorboards between the seats and throwing his heavy ballistic coat over me.
Gunfire erupted like firecrackers against the reinforced glass of the Maybach. The heavy armor plating absorbed the rounds with dull, vibrating impacts, spider-webbing the exterior glass but holding firm.
“They're trying to breach the doors with thermite!” Miller warned, ducking as a heavy magnetic clamp was slammed against the rear passenger door.
Rhys didn’t panic. His face transformed into a mask of pure, lethal calculation. He reached into the concealed compartment beneath the center console, pulling out an automatic submachine gun and two smoke grenades.
“Miller, pop the fire suppression canisters on the exterior chassis on my mark,” Rhys ordered, his voice steady as an executioner’s countdown. “Isadora, when I move, you stay behind the engine block. Do not look back.”
“Rhys, no! There are too many of them!” I cried, grabbing his wrist.
He looked down at me, and for the briefest second, a flash of profound tenderness broke through the coldness in his eyes. He leaned down and pressed a fierce, lingering kiss against my forehead. “No one takes you from me, Isadora. Ever.”
“Mark!” Rhys roared.
The exterior chassis of the Maybach unleashed an explosive cloud of white chemical foam and dense tear gas, blinding the ambushers surrounding the car.
Rhys kicked the rear door open with terrifying force, the heavy steel door striking the nearest gunman and throwing him onto the icy road. Rhys stepped out into the smoke like a demon of vengeance.
Through the tinted glass, I watched in awe and horror. Rhys didn’t spray wild bullets; he fired with military precision, dropping two attackers before they could raise their weapons. Miller flanked from the driver's side, providing covering fire as police sirens began wailing in the distance, echoing off the concrete canyon of the lower street.
Suddenly, a massive figure charged through the smoke, tackling Rhys against the bridge railing. The man knocked the submachine gun from Rhys’s hand, pulling a combat knife from his tactical vest.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.
The scared girl who hid in the hotel bathroom was dead.
I kicked open the door, grabbed the heavy steel fire extinguisher from beneath the driver’s seat, and charged out into the freezing slush.
As the attacker raised the knife to drive it into Rhys’s chest, I swung the heavy steel cylinder with every ounce of fury inside my body. It connected with the side of the attacker’s helmet with a resounding CRACK.
The man stumbled, disoriented.
Rhys didn’t waste the second I bought him. He pivoted on his heel, drove his elbow into the man’s throat, swept his legs, and sent him crashing headfirst onto the concrete, knocked unconscious.
Rhys stood over the fallen attacker, his chest heaving, steam rising from his broad shoulders in the winter chill. He turned to look at me, holding the fire extinguisher in my bruised, trembling hands, my midnight-blue velvet dress spattered with gray slush.
A slow, breathtaking smile broke across his handsome face.
“Remind me never to make you angry, Mrs. Vance,” he breathed.
In the distance, the flashing red and blue lights of fifty state police cruisers were descending upon the bridge. But they weren't here to arrest Rhys.
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Behind the lead cruiser drove three black federal utility vehicles carrying the emblem of the United States Department of Justice.
The war had shifted.
