Chapter 3 - OUT OF THE ASHES
The country club was devolving into absolute pandemonium. The flames from the destroyed SUV licked thirty feet into the night sky, casting a hellish orange glow over the manicured lawns. VIPs in ruined designer gowns and bespoke suits were trampling each other to reach the rear exits.
"I can't go with you!" Mateo shouted over the roaring fire and the screaming crowd, trying to pull his arm away. "I'm just a valet! I have a shift tomorrow!"
"You won't have a life tomorrow if you stay here," Thorne countered ruthlessly, dragging Mateo toward the secondary VIP parking lot. "Cross knows your face. He knows you blew his operation. The police will be here in two minutes, and half the tactical teams in this city might be on Cross’s payroll. Move!"
Mateo’s ribs screamed in agony with every step, but the cold logic in Thorne’s words spurred his feet into motion. If the Head of Security for the Governor was an assassin, the corruption ran deeper than a simple car bomb. Mateo was a loose end. A liability.
They sprinted past a row of luxury vehicles untouched by the blast. "We need a car," Thorne barked, scanning the lot. "Something fast. Something untraceable."
Mateo patted his pockets frantically, his trembling fingers brushing against a set of cold metal keys. He had forgotten to return them to the board before the chaos erupted. He pulled them out—a silver fob with a distinct, prancing horse logo.
"I have the keys to a Ferrari GTC4Lusso," Mateo panted, pointing a shaky finger toward a sleek, dark grey sports car tucked into a shadowy corner of the lot. "V12 engine. Belongs to some hedge fund guy."
"Perfect," Thorne said. "You're driving."
"What? No, I only park them at five miles an hour!"
"Learn fast, son," Thorne growled, shoving Mateo toward the driver’s side.
They slid into the low-slung Italian supercar. The interior smelled of rich leather and expensive cologne. Mateo slammed his foot on the brake and hit the ignition. The V12 engine roared to life, a guttural, furious sound that rivaled the sirens closing in on the country club.
"We have company," Thorne said, looking in the side mirror.
Two men in black tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns, were sprinting toward the parking lot, their eyes locked on the revving Ferrari. They weren't Miami PD. They were Cross's cleanup crew.
"Drive!" Thorne yelled.
Mateo threw the car into drive and stomped on the accelerator. The Ferrari fishtailed wildly, tires screeching against the asphalt in a cloud of white smoke, before the all-wheel-drive system caught traction. The car launched forward like a missile, tearing through the wooden exit barrier and launching into the humid Miami night. Gunfire erupted behind them, a hail of bullets sparking off the pavement where the car had been a fraction of a second before.
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As they merged onto the chaotic surface streets, swerving past bewildered drivers and oncoming police cruisers, Mateo’s heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped the leather steering wheel, his knuckles white. He had just stolen a half-million-dollar car, saved a ruthless politician, and become the target of a highly trained hit squad.
"Take the ramp to I-95 South," Thorne commanded, pulling a burner phone from his own pocket and dialing a number. "We need to disappear. And then, we're going hunting."
