I move through it, ignoring the burn in my shoulder, keeping my focus locked on what matters.
Elliot.
I find him halfway down the stairs. He pauses just long enough to take in the damage, the bodies, and the panic as it spreads through the club.
Then he runs.
He cuts through the VIP hallway, slams into the side door, and disappears into the private garage before I can line up the shot.
“Garage,” Brooke says, breath catching, panic bleeding into fury.
We tear through the hallway. People scatter as the alarms finally catch up to the violence. Red light pulses across the exit, washing everything in flashes of chaos.
We hit the valet ramp just as Elliot comes into view.
He moves fast, cutting through the panic. He reaches his car, yanks the door of his black Lamborghini open, and drops into the driver’s seat.
Then I hear that fucking engine roar to life, echoing through the garage as he slams it into gear and guns it toward the exit.
“Shit,” Brooke breathes. “He’s getting away—”
A valet attendant runs straight into my path, keys clutched in his hand, heading for a sleek black Porsche idling near the front.
I grab him by the front of his jacket and shove him hard into the concrete. He hits with a grunt, the keys slipping from his hand. I snatch the keys to the car, rip the driver’s door open, and drop into the seat.
Brooke is in the passenger side before I can even tell her to move.
I start the engine and floor it. The tires scream as we launch out of the garage, just in time to see Elliot’s Lamborghini explode up the ramp ahead of us. He clips the front end of a sedan near the curb, sending it spinninginto the intersection. Metal shrieks. Glass bursts across the pavement. Drivers slam their horns, swerving, panicking as everything falls apart.
“There,” Brooke points. “That’s him.”
The tires bite hard, launching us forward. I weave through the chaos, nearly clipping a car that swerves too late. A light pole goes down behind us with a burst of sparks. People are still running from the club, screaming, shoving each other, trying to survive.
But all I can see is Elliot.
He drives that Lamborghini like he thinks it will save him. He tears through intersections, ignores every light, cuts across oncoming traffic. He forces an SUV into a fire hydrant that explodes upward in a geyser of water. He doesn't look back.
Every time I see his car twist through another red light, my grip on the wheel tightens.
I hate him. The sound of his voice. The smugness in every word. The videos he made. The footage of him torturing his victims. What he did to my girl won't go unpunished. He doesn't get to vanish into the night. He doesn't get an easy exit or a clean death.
He is mine.
Elliot cuts into a side street, buildings closing in. The street narrows. I keep after him, bumper to bumper. Brooke doesn't speak. Her eyes are locked on his car.
Elliot glances back, just once. His eyes meet mine in the rearview.
And he fires.
The shot lights up his car. The bullet cracks through our windshield, spiderwebbing the glass dead center. The cabin fills with the scent of powder and burning plastic. I line up my shot, lean just enough, and fire at his rear tire.
The bullet hits home.
The car jolts violently, skidding sideways in a spray of sparks. Elliot fights the wheel. I see it. The exact second he knows he has lost control.
The Lamborghini slams into a concrete barrier at full speed. The front folds in, steel twisting. The hood crumples. The windshield shatters in asingle violent burst. One headlight bursts outward in a spray of debris. Smoke billows from the engine.
I hit the brakes and skid to a stop twenty feet behind him. I step out with my gun raised. I want him to crawl. I want him to beg. I want him to know what it feels like to lose control and choke on it.
