Chapter 9 - CHASE THROUGH THE CONCRETE JUNGLE
The rain transformed FDR Drive into a slick, reflective ribbon of black ice and churning spray. Streetlights smeared across the windshield in streaks of yellow and white as the pink G-Wagon tore down the eastern edge of Manhattan at over ninety miles per hour. The digital speedometer climbed relentlessly, the massive engine devouring the distance between Connecticut and the heart of the city.
On the dashboard display, Special Agent Vance’s tactical radio patch crackled through the speakers.
"All units, suspect vehicle is a black Lincoln Town Car, New York plates, heading southbound on Lafayette Street toward the Brooklyn Bridge approach," an NYPD dispatcher blared. "Target female is in the rear passenger seat. Suspects are believed to be armed and affiliated with an organized transnational narcotics syndicate."
"Vance!" I yelled over the engine's roar. "Are your units in pursuit?"
"We have two marked patrol cars trailing three blocks back, but the Lincoln is driving erratically, blowing red lights!" Vance answered, the stress in her voice palpable. "They know we’re on them! They aren't heading for a safehouse, Daniel—they're heading for the waterfront! If they get her into the abandoned industrial piers in Red Hook, we lose visual contact!"
"I’m coming off the FDR at the Brooklyn Bridge exit right now," I shouted, wrenching the wheel hard to the right.
The SUV’s tires shrieked against the wet pavement as I drifted across three lanes of traffic, cutting off a yellow cab, and launched the vehicle onto the ramp leading toward Lower Manhattan.
Two minutes later, I blew past the intersection of Worth and Centre Street.
Ahead, through the veil of rain, the boxy tail lights of the black Lincoln Town Car were weaving violently through the late-night delivery trucks. Inside the rear window, a pale silhouette was visible—a woman thrashing frantically against the door, her hands beating desperately against the reinforced glass.
It was Lauren.
She had finally realized that the men who paid her bail weren't Derek's high-priced lawyers; they were her executioners.
The Lincoln took a hard, reckless left onto a narrow cobblestone side street in Chinatown, heading toward the water.
I stomped the accelerator. The G-Wagon surged forward with terrifying velocity, closing the gap in seconds. The custom steel push bar on the front grill gleamed under the streetlamps.
"Bennett, do not ram that vehicle!" Vance's voice screamed through the radio. "You'll cause a catastrophic collision!"
"Hold on, Lauren," I muttered through gritted teeth.
As the Lincoln attempted to round a sharp corner onto South Street, its rear tires lost traction on the wet cobblestones, fishtailing wildly. The driver overcorrected, slamming into a row of metal trash dumpsters, but quickly regained momentum, its engine screaming as it prepared to launch down the open waterfront straightaway.
I didn't hesitate. I cut the angle, pulled alongside the driver’s side of the Lincoln, and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right.
The impact was deafening.
Steel crunched against steel with the violent shriek of tearing metal. The immense weight and low center of gravity of the G-Wagon completely overpowered the older sedan. The Lincoln was knocked sideways, spinning one hundred and eighty degrees across the slick asphalt before slamming violently into the reinforced concrete stanchion beneath the elevated highway.
The Lincoln's engine died in a cloud of hissing radiator steam and shattering glass.
I threw the G-Wagon into park, grabbed the heavy industrial flashlight, and kicked my door open into the pouring rain.
The driver of the Lincoln, his forehead streaming with blood, kicked open his crumpled door and stumbled out, raising a handgun.
Before he could align the barrel, the wail of sirens culminated in a blinding wall of light. Four unmarked tactical SUVs and three marked NYPD interceptors roared onto the scene, boxing the alley completely shut.
"DROP THE WEAPON! DROP IT OR WE FIRE!"
A dozen laser sights painted the driver’s chest with glowing red dots. The gunman froze, looked at the overwhelming wall of federal firepower, and dropped the weapon onto the wet pavement, raising his hands in defeat.
I walked past the agents who were swarming the driver and approached the rear door of the crushed Lincoln. The glass was shattered, the frame bent inward.
I grabbed the door handle, braced my boot against the rear tire, and wrenched the door open with a metallic groan.
Inside, Lauren was curled on the floorboards, soaking wet, her expensive executive blouse torn, her makeup running in grotesque black streaks down her face. She was shivering uncontrollably, clutching her bruised wrists where the handcuffs had recently been removed.
She looked up.
When she saw my face framed by the flashing blue police lights, she didn't speak. She let out a broken, animalistic sob and reached her trembling hands toward me, desperate for safety, desperate for the man she had thrown away.
May you like
I didn't reach out to pull her up.
I stepped back, stood in the rain, and let Special Agent Vance and two female paramedics step in to take her arms.
