Chapter 4 - THE BURN ZONE
The Ferrari tore down I-95 like a dark phantom, weaving through the late-night Miami traffic at over a hundred and twenty miles per hour. The neon lights of the city blurred into streaks of electric blue and violent pink. Mateo’s hands were clamped onto the steering wheel, his eyes wide and unblinking. Every time he checked the rearview mirror, he expected to see the flashing lights of corrupt police cruisers or the menacing headlights of Cross's pursuit teams.
"Slow down before you get us killed without Cross's help," Thorne ordered, though his tone was remarkably steady. He had finished his phone call and was now ripping the SIM card out of his device, snapping it in half, and tossing it out the window.
Mateo eased his foot off the gas, dropping the speed to a slightly less conspicuous eighty miles per hour. "Where are we going?" he asked, his voice cracking. "My family... my mom is at home in Little Havana. If they know who I am..."
"They don't know who you are yet," Thorne said, leaning back into the bucket seat. "You were a random variable. Cross planned for my detail, my schedule, my habits. He didn't plan for a sharp-eyed valet dropping a flashlight. By the time they identify you through the club's employee records, we'll have the leverage to protect your family."
"Leverage?" Mateo scoffed, a spike of adrenaline-fueled anger cutting through his fear. "We're running for our lives in a stolen car! What leverage?"
"The kind of leverage that brings down empires," Thorne said coldly. "Cross didn't do this for ideology. He's a mercenary. Someone paid him an exorbitant amount of money to ensure I don't announce my presidential run tomorrow morning. And I know exactly who has the resources and the motive to pull this off."
Before Thorne could elaborate, the Ferrari’s massive touchscreen console lit up with a harsh, blaring alarm. A proximity warning.
Mateo glanced at the rearview mirror. Two black, unmarked Dodge Chargers had appeared out of nowhere, weaving violently through the traffic behind them, closing the distance at a terrifying speed. They had no headlights on. They were running completely dark.
"They found us," Mateo choked out.
"Cross has access to the city's traffic grid and license plate readers," Thorne deduced instantly. "He tracked the Ferrari. Lose them, kid."
Mateo swallowed hard, gripping the wheel. He wasn't a stunt driver, but he had spent his life playing racing simulators in arcades and navigating the chaotic streets of Miami. He slammed the accelerator to the floor. The Ferrari lunged forward, the speedometer needle rocketing past 140.
The wind roared around the chassis. Mateo swerved violently across three lanes, narrowly avoiding a massive semi-truck, the gap so tight the truck's horn blared furiously in their wake. The Chargers matched the maneuver, their heavy V8 engines roaring in pursuit. One of the Chargers pulled into the adjacent lane, slowly creeping up to the Ferrari's flank. The passenger window rolled down, revealing a masked man leaning out with an assault rifle.
"Brace yourself!" Thorne yelled.
Mateo jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, slamming the heavy reinforced side of the Italian supercar directly into the Charger’s front quarter panel. The impact was deafening. The Charger wobbled, losing traction, and slammed violently into the concrete median, erupting in a shower of sparks and twisting metal before flipping over multiple times.
The second Charger, however, was undeterred. It rammed the Ferrari from behind, sending Mateo jerking forward in his seat, the seatbelt biting harshly into his collarbone.
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"Take the next exit! Now!" Thorne commanded.
Mateo yanked the wheel, cutting across the gore point at over ninety miles per hour. The Ferrari flew down the off-ramp, tires screaming in agony as Mateo drifted through the sharp curve, plunging them into the desolate, industrial warehouse district of Hialeah. The remaining Charger was right on their tail, relentless and lethal.
