Chapter 8 - THE AMBUSH AT THE BRIDGE
Two miles from the Rossi estate, a narrow iron bridge spanned a jagged coastal ravine. Rain fell in thick sheets, blurring the windshield of Clara’s modest sedan.
As she crossed the crest of the bridge, a heavy black pickup truck suddenly surged out of a side road, slamming sideways into the front bumper of her car.
Clara screamed as her sedan spun out of control, tires screeching violently against the wet asphalt before slamming into the bridge’s iron guardrail. Airbags deployed with a deafening bang, filling the cab with white smoke.
Dazed and bleeding from a small cut on her forehead, Clara fought to breath. Through the cracked windshield, she saw four masked men in tactical gear step out of the pickup truck, pulling heavy automatic pistols from their jackets.
The driver’s side door of her sedan was ripped open with a crowbar.
“Get her out!” a harsh voice barked.
Clara fought fiercely, kicking and scratching, but one of the men grabbed her by the hair, dragging her roughly onto the wet pavement.
“Julian Moretti sends his regards, doc,” the lead gunman sneered, pointing a suppressed gun at her forehead. “You shouldn't have taken a job with a dying family.”
Suddenly, the roaring engine of a heavy, armored SUV echoed across the ravine.
Before the gunman could pull the trigger, the three-ton armored vehicle crested the hill at eighty miles an hour, smashing directly into the Moretti pickup truck and throwing it off the side of the bridge into the roaring river below.
The force of the impact sent the remaining ambushers scattering.
The door of the armored SUV flew open. Vincent Rossi stepped out into the pouring rain. He didn't look like a businessman anymore. He looked like an ancient god of war.
With lethal, terrifying precision, Vincent fired three rapid shots. The three gunmen dropped into the rain-slicked road before they could even raise their weapons.
Vincent sprinted toward Clara, dropping to his knees in the mud beside her. His face was frantic, completely stripped of his usual cold composure.
“Clara!” he roared, pulling her into his arms, checking her neck for a pulse, his hands shaking violently. “Clara, look at me!”
Clara coughed, gasping for air, clutching his jacket. “I’m... I’m okay,” she wheezed, wiping blood from her brow. “The supplies... Matteo’s meds...”
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Vincent pulled her tight against his chest, burying his face in her wet hair, his heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“To hell with the supplies,” Vincent growled, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “Nobody touches you. Nobody.”
