Chapter 7 - Hunted in Rancho Santa Fe
*(Word count: ~1,550 words)*
The drive south toward downtown San Diego was an exercise in pure psychological warfare.
On the center-console radio, local news broadcasts were already picking up the scent of blood.
*“...breaking news out of La Jolla, where emergency responders have converged on the estate of logistics billionaire Nathan Whitaker. Unconfirmed reports suggest an armed domestic disturbance occurred early this morning. Company representatives have issued a statement urging calm, stating that Mr. Whitaker may be experiencing a private medical emergency...”*
“Caroline works fast,” Martin muttered, his knuckles white around the leather steering wheel as he navigated the Lincoln through the light traffic of Del Mar. “She’s already poisoning the well. If you turn up dead, the public will think it was a suicide or an erratic accident.”
“She’s desperate,” Nathan said, monitoring his burner phone. “Julian’s phone has vibrated six times in my pocket. All messages from Caroline.”
He opened the decrypted messages on the screen:
*Julian, where are you? The board is seated. Admiral Harris from the procurement committee is here. Preston says Martin’s phone stopped transmitting from the reservoir. Did you finish it? Answer me!*
Nathan didn't reply. Silence was the sharpest scalpel he possessed. Every second Caroline sat in that boardroom without confirmation was a second she spent spiraling deeper into paranoia.
As they approached the intersection of Interstate 5 and the Highway 56 connector, Martin’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
“Mr. Nathan. We’ve got company.”
Nathan adjusted his side mirror. Two unmarked black Dodge Durangos with tinted windows and low-profile roof racks were hanging three car lengths behind them, matching their speed lane for lane.
“Caroline’s private estate security,” Nathan observed coldly. “They recognize the Lincoln’s license plate. They think the hitman is driving my body to the drop point.”
“Or,” Martin countered grimly, “the hitman back at your house managed to give them a partial description before Marcus’s team took the property.”
Suddenly, the lead Durango accelerated aggressively, pulling alongside the Lincoln’s driver-side door. The tinted window rolled down two inches, revealing the barrel of a semi-automatic shotgun.
“Hold on!” Martin roared, slamming his foot on the accelerator.
The Lincoln’s twin-turbocharged V8 engine responded instantly, pinning Nathan into the leather seat as the heavy sedan surged forward through a gap between two commercial tractor-trailers.
*BOOM.*
A blast of heavy buckshot tore through the Lincoln’s rear quarter-panel, blowing out the left taillight and leaving jagged holes in the steel.
“Martin, take the Sorrento Valley bypass!” Nathan shouted, pulling Julian’s captured weapon from beneath his coat. “Get us into the warehouse district!”
Martin swung the wheel hard to the right, cutting across three lanes of traffic onto the off-ramp with the tires screaming in protest. The Lincoln slid sideways through the concrete interchange, narrowly missing a concrete barrier before righting itself on the industrial access road.
Behind them, both Durangos roared down the ramp in hot pursuit, their front push-bars gleaming like iron jaws in the midday sun.
“They’re not trying to capture us!” Martin yelled, ducking as a second round of gunfire shattered the Lincoln’s rear window, showering the interior with thousands of tiny pebbles of tempered safety glass. “They’re trying to run us off the road right here!”
“They can’t afford for me to reach downtown!” Nathan replied. He leaned across the center console, checking the side mirrors. “Martin, when you clear this next shipping terminal, hit the emergency handbrake and spin us one-eighty!”
“Are you out of your mind, Nathan?”
“They think they’re chasing a victim!” Nathan barked. “Show them who built this road!”
Martin didn't argue. He gritted his teeth, his face a mask of determined ferocity. As the Lincoln cleared the concrete entrance of the Whitaker Global Container Depot on Carroll Canyon Road, Martin yanked the mechanical brake and wrenched the steering wheel hard left.
The two-ton sedan executed a flawless tactical J-turn, tires smoking violently, spinning a full one hundred and eighty degrees across the four-lane industrial boulevard.
The lead Durango, expecting their quarry to keep running, blasted past them at fifty miles per hour.
Nathan kicked his door open an inch, leveled his pistol through the smoke, and fired four rapid, precision shots into the lead vehicle’s front passenger tire and radiator grille.
The Durango’s tire exploded in a cloud of rubber shreds. The heavy SUV swerved uncontrollably, caught the concrete curb of the median, and flipped violently onto its roof, skidding across the asphalt in a shower of sparks before slamming into a row of empty steel cargo containers.
The second Durango slammed on its brakes, sliding to a halt fifty yards away. Three private security guards in black tactical gear poured out of the vehicle, raising their rifles.
“Down!” Nathan roared.
Before the mercenaries could establish a firing line, the massive steel security gates of the Whitaker Global Container Depot swung open with a deafening hydraulic screech.
A forty-ton industrial container-stacker crane—an iron behemoth typically used to move twenty-thousand-pound ocean freight boxes—roared out of the terminal yard, operated by two of Nathan’s veteran union dockworkers who had recognized their boss’s car.
The massive steel forks of the machine dropped with earth-shaking force, ramming straight through the engine block of the second Durango like a spear through tin foil, lifting the vehicle’s front axle four feet into the air and crushing the motor into a useless lump of scrap.
The three mercenaries stared in sheer, paralyzed horror at the gargantuan industrial machine towering over them.
From the crane’s elevated cab, a burly, bearded crane operator named Big Mike leaned out the window, a heavy iron spanner resting across his shoulder.
“You boys lost?” Big Mike bellowed through his megaphone. “This is a Whitaker yard! Get the hell off our pavement before I turn your truck into a flatbed pancake!”
The mercenaries dropped their weapons, turned on their heels, and ran for their lives down Carroll Canyon Road.
Nathan stepped out of the battered Lincoln, brushing glass from his suit jacket.
Big Mike looked down from the cab, his eyes widening as he saw Nathan’s bloody hands and ruined suit. “Mr. Whitaker? Holy hell, boss... what is going on out here?”
Nathan looked up at his employee—one of the thousands of men and women who actually made the company work while the boardroom drank sixty-dollar tea.
“Just cleaning house, Mike,” Nathan said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Do you have the private shuttle van fueled in bay three?”
“Always, Mr. Whitaker,” Mike said, immediately climbing down the crane’s ladder. “Keys are in the ignition.”
Nathan turned to Martin, who was leaning against the ruined Lincoln, breathing heavily, but grinning through his split lip.
May you like
“Come on, Martin,” Nathan said, clapping the old driver on the shoulder. “Let’s not keep my wife waiting any longer. It’s almost noon.”
***
