“Copy that. We see him. Watching.”
I kept my eyes on the motorcycle. The rider wore all black. Full helmet. Gloves. Nothing identifiable. But the way he moved spoke of training. Military precision in every lane change.
We approached the bridge crossing the Thames. Narrower here. Only two lanes each direction. Construction had reduced it further. The motorcade was forced into single file by the bottleneck, stretched out like a snake with too much exposed belly.
Vulnerable.
Every instinct I had screamed danger.
The motorcycle moved closer. Two cars back now. One. Too close for coincidence.
“Marcus, when I say move, you floor it and do not stop for anything. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sebastian.” I kept my voice level. Calm. “I need you to get on the floor. Right now. Do not argue. Do not ask questions. Just do it.”
“Viktor—”
“Now!”
The motorcycle pulled alongside the car between us and them. The rider's hand moved inside his jacket, and I saw metal. Chrome. A pistol.
“Down!” I roared, spinning in my seat. “Sebastian, get down now!”
He dropped to the floor without hesitation. Good. He'd listened.
The first shot hit the windshield. The sound was like a hammer on stone. Spiderweb crack bloomed across ballistic glass, but it held. Level four protection. Thank fuck.
The second shot hit the rear tire. The car lurched hard right, fishtailing on wet pavement.
“Drive!” I barked at Marcus. “Go go go!”
He punched it, but we were already sliding. The blown tire threw off the balance. Sparks sprayed from the rim grinding asphalt.
A black van swerved from the opposite lane, cutting across traffic like physics didn't apply. Horns blared. Brakes screamed. The van's side door was already sliding open, revealing armed men inside. Three. No, four. Automatic weapons raised.
Military-grade hardware. Body armor. Coordinated movements.
This wasn't random. This was professional.
“Contact!” I shouted into my comm. “Multiple hostiles. Automatic weapons. We are under attack!”
Gunfire erupted. Full automatic. The sound was deafening even through armor. Bullets hammered the car like hail. Marcus kept driving, swerving between lanes, trying to find an out, but there was nowhere to go.
Another vehicle cut us off from the front. Black sedan. Tinted windows. Boxing us in.
Trap. This was a fucking trap.
More gunfire from behind. The rear windshield cracked. Held. But wouldn't hold forever.
“Marcus, there!” I pointed at an alley opening between buildings. Narrow. Barely wide enough. “Go!”
He cranked the wheel hard right. The car scraped brick, metal shrieking. We were off the main road. Away from crossfire. But not safe.
Never safe.
The alley was a knife edge. Dumpsters on both sides. Fire escapes. Water pooling in potholes that jolted the car on its damaged tire. Marcus kept us moving, foot down, engine screaming.
