Chapter 7 - The Chase in the Ice
The freight elevator doors crashed open, and I tumbled out into the subterranean loading bay of the Plaza Hotel, my 9mm drawn and ready.
Dante and three tactical operatives were already waiting by our armored Maybach, guns drawn, having intercepted security radio chatter about a Code Red in the sub-basement.
"They're heading for the New Jersey transit tunnel in a black armored Lincoln Navigator," I ordered, wrenching open the driver’s side door of the Maybach. "Dante, you take the tactical van and block the south exit. I'm taking the main tube."
"Boss, it's suicide to chase them into the tunnel alone," Dante warned. "Bellamy’s private security detail is heavily armed."
"She went in there to save my son," I snarled, slamming the car into gear and burning rubber across the slick concrete of the parking garage. "I'm not leaving her to die."
The Maybach roared out of the subterranean garage into the blinding sleet of Manhattan’s West Side Highway. Ahead of me, cutting aggressively through the sparse midnight traffic, was a black armored Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows and diplomatic plates.
I slammed my foot down on the accelerator. The heavy armored sedan surged forward, closing the gap at 90 miles per hour.
The Navigator swerved violently, trying to sideswipe me against the concrete Jersey barrier. I spun my steering wheel, crunching metal against metal, sending a shower of orange sparks flying into the freezing night air.
Ahead of us loomed the entrance to the Holland Tunnel—a dark, concrete-lined tube plunging beneath the icy waters of the Hudson River.
The Navigator didn't brake. It hurtled straight into the tunnel, tires squealing against the wet tile. I followed right on its bumper, my headlights cutting through the exhaust fumes and flashing safety lights.
Inside the tunnel, the rules of the city didn't apply.
A rear window of the Navigator rolled down, and a masked gunman leaned out, leveling a suppressed submachine gun directly at my windshield.
Pop-pop-pop!
Bullet holes starred across my bulletproof glass in a spiderweb pattern. I ducked instinctively, steering with one hand while returning fire through my open side window. My bullets sparked off the Lincoln's reinforced rear quarter-panel, forcing the gunman back inside.
With a reckless jerk of the wheel, I accelerated hard, slamming my heavy Maybach directly into the rear bumper of the Navigator.
May you like
The impact was bone-jarring. The Lincoln spun out across three lanes of traffic, slamming sideways into the tiled tunnel wall with a deafening screech of crumpled steel and shattered glass.
Both vehicles ground to a halt, engine smoke billowing thick and white into the enclosed concrete tube.
