Chapter 4 - GHOSTS IN THE REARVIEW
The service elevator groaned as it descended into the bowels of the Moretti estate, bypassing the main floor where the remnants of the security detail were likely regrouping. Gabriel hung heavily against my shoulder, his breathing ragged, but his right hand never dropped the Five-seveN.
When the metal doors slid open, the cold smell of motor oil, damp concrete, and gasoline hit us. The underground garage was vast, housing a fleet of vintage Italian roadsters and luxury sedans, but parked in the far corner under a low-hanging halogen bulb was a matte-black Mercedes-Maybach with bulletproof glass three inches thick.
"The console keys are in my pocket," Gabriel grunted, his knees almost buckling as his deadened nerves betrayed him.
I supported him, my legs burning with the strain. I had spent half a decade lifting three-hundred-pound men out of intensive care beds, but guiding an injured mob sovereign while armed with a firearm was a different kind of physical trial. I reached into his front pocket, my fingers brushing against the rough denim and the hard line of his thigh. For a split second, despite the terror and the blood, a jolt of raw heat shot through my chest.
I pulled out the heavy fob, hit the unlock button, and swung the heavy rear passenger door open.
"Front seat," Gabriel commanded, catching his breath against the doorframe. "You're driving."
"I drive a ten-year-old Honda Civic, Mr. Moretti," I said, easing him into the passenger seat before running around to the driver's side. "I’ve never handled a four-ton rolling tank."
"Step on the gas. Don't brake for anything smaller than a concrete pillar."
I threw myself behind the leather-wrapped steering wheel, slammed the push-to-start button, and the twin-turbo V12 engine roared to life with a deep, predatory rumble. The digital dashboard illuminated the dark garage, showing full fuel and encrypted satellite navigation.
Before I could shift into drive, the garage access doors at the top of the ramp flew open. Flashlights cut through the darkness, followed by three men in black coats armed with semi-automatic rifles.
"Block the gate!" someone screamed.
"Drive!" Gabriel barked.
I slammed the shifter into reverse, spun the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The Maybach launched backward with staggering torque, its tires screeching against the polished epoxy floor. The rear bumper smashed clean through a rolling metal tool chest, sending wrenches and drills flying like shrapnel.
I slammed the brakes, whipped the nose toward the exit ramp, and threw it into drive.
A hail of rifle rounds slammed into the windshield. The glass spiderwebbed into dense white circles, but the armored laminate held firm, deflecting the bullets into the ceiling.
"Keep your head down!" Gabriel yelled, leaning across the center console. In one fluid, shockingly powerful motion, he shoved his massive body partially over mine, shielding my head and torso with his own chest while leveling his pistol through the driver's side gun-port slot built into the armored door.
He fired three deliberate shots. The lead shooter dropped. The other two dove behind concrete pillars.
I didn't lift my foot from the floorboard. The heavy sedan hit the reinforced security gate at forty miles per hour. Steel screamed, hinges snapped like dry twigs, and we burst out into the raging blizzard, tires churning through eight inches of fresh powder as we fishtailed onto the private mountain road.
Gabriel fell back into the passenger seat, gasping for air, clutching his abdomen. A dark, sticky stain was blooming across the right side of his gray shirt.
"Gabriel!" I shouted, glancing sideways while wrestling the steering wheel against the slick, winding turns of the descent. "You're hit!"
"Graze," he gritted out, his teeth stained with red. "One of the rounds... caught me through the door seal. Keep driving."
"I need to pack that wound!"
"You stop this car, and Marco’s perimeter cars will box us in before we reach the highway," he said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, hypnotic register that brooked no argument. "Take the back road toward the industrial harbor. Berth Forty-Two."
"Why the harbor? We should be going to a hospital!"
"The hospitals are watched. Every private clinic in this city reports to doctors Marco put in place," Gabriel said, reaching over with a trembling, blood-slicked hand and resting it firmly over my knuckles on the steering wheel. The warmth of his skin was blistering against my cold fingers. "You saved my life tonight, Clara. You gave me back my hands. Now let me finish this."
I looked at him—the fierce, unyielding pride in his battered face, the dark eyes that looked at me not as an employee, not as an afterthought, but as his equal, his lifeline, his savior.
"If you die in my passenger seat," I said fiercely, wiping snow and sweat from my forehead, "I’m reviving you just to yell at you."
May you like
The faintest trace of a wicked, genuine smile touched the corner of his lips. "Fair enough, Nurse Bennett. Floor it."
Behind us, through the swirling curtain of white snow, two sets of high-intensity halogen headlights appeared around the bend, closing the distance fast.
