Chapter 7 - The Toll of the Bridge
The glass didn't shatter—the reinforced polycarbonate layer caught the armor-piercing round, but the impact shuddered violently through the back frame of the SUV, showering us in glittering translucent dust.
“They’ve got heavy ordnance!” Marcus roared, wrenching the wheel hard to the left as a second round chewed through the rear quarter panel, sparking bright orange against the steel chassis.
“Keep driving toward the old drawbridge!” Antonio commanded, his voice slicing through the chaos. His hand gripped his ebony cane like a weapon, knuckles white. “If we reach the lower approach before they raise the spans, we can lose them in the industrial labyrinth.”
“The bridge is under automated maintenance control!” Emily shouted over the screaming wind and the roar of our engine. She was leaning over the back seat, shielding young Mia with her body as another round hammered into the roof. “The commission controls the municipal grid—they can lock the gates remotely!”
I looked down at the satellite phone in my hand. Speed dial one.
Without hesitating, I pressed the call button and shoved the device against my ear. It rang twice before a cold, clipped voice answered on the other end.
“State your clearance code.”
“Moretti,” I snapped, my voice cutting through the gunfire echoing behind us. “Tell your patrol units on the south river district to clear the lower Michigan span immediately. We have an active hostile engagement, and if your barricades are locked when we hit them, I’m releasing the full ledger to the federal prosecutor within sixty seconds.”
A heavy pause hung on the line. The kind of pause where career politicians decide whether to sink with the ship or jump.
“Approach vectors are clearing now, Mr. Moretti,” the voice replied smoothly. “You have ninety seconds before the federal task force intercepts the pursuit. Make it count.”
The line went dead.
Ahead of us, through the sheets of driving rain, the massive iron skeleton of the South Michigan drawbridge loomed out of the dark. Red warning lights blinked lazily, and the heavy steel security gates that usually blocked access to the lower tier were juddering, grinding gears fighting against an automated lock.
“They’re closing it!” Marcus yelled, slamming his foot harder against the floorboard. The SUV surged forward, its supercharged engine screaming in protest.
“Ram it!” Antonio ordered.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He tucked his chin, gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and plowed the heavy armored vehicle straight into the center of the steel security barrier.
CRASH.
The gate buckled with an ear-splitting shriek of twisted metal, sheared rivets flying like bullets into the night. The SUV vaulted through the wreckage, slamming down onto the slick concrete of the lower bridge deck with a force that rattled my teeth.
Behind us, the pursuing black sedans tried to follow, but they misjudged our speed in the slick rain. The lead car slammed into the partially closed steel gate at eighty miles an hour, flipping violently over its nose and crashing into the concrete abutment in a ball of sparks and crushed metal.
The second sedan swerved, skidded sideways across the wet road, and slammed hard into the bridge railing, its front end crumpled like a soda can.
Marcus glanced in the rear-view mirror, letting out a sharp breath of relief. “We lost the tail.”
“Not all of them,” I said, looking out the side window.
Gliding out from under the shadow of the bridge approach on our flank was a second, heavier tactical van—bearing no license plates and no police markings. It matched our speed effortlessly, cutting off our escape route toward the warehouse district.
Through the tinted passenger window of the van, I caught a brief glimpse of a familiar face.
Vincent.
He wasn't running away. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of the enemy vehicle, holding a heavy-duty radio transmitter in his hand, staring directly across at me with an expression of profound, quiet sorrow.
He didn't look like a traitor anymore. He looked like a man who had already made his peace with the grave.
“Boss,” Marcus muttered, his eyes wide. “He’s holding the remote trigger for the bridge explosives.”
Antonio slowly raised his head, looking through the shattered rear window toward the middle of the span where Vincent’s van had us pinned against the concrete barrier.
May you like
“He’s not trying to kill us, Lorenzo,” my father whispered, a strange, grim smile touching the corners of his mouth. “He’s finishing his job.”
Before I could process the words, Vincent pressed a single red button on the transmitter in his hand.
