He gave his daughter a reason to fight back. And this time, she’s not running away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Istare out the side window of the Aston Martin, watching the gray brick buildings of Brooklyn slide past in a blurry, monotonous line. My hand keeps creeping toward my pocket, my fingers brushing the cheap plastic of the burner phone just to make sure it’s still there.
New Jersey. Alpine. Bergen County.
The name of the county repeats in my head like an annoying song I can't shake. My son is there. He’s been there for so long, living in some gilded cage while I ran all over looking for a trail that had already gone cold.
"We have company," Mikhail says shortly.
My stomach does a violent, ugly drop. "What do you mean, company? Who?"
"A gray Dodge Sedan. It’s been trailing us since we cleared the estate gates." Mikhail’s face doesn't show any panic, but his hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard his scarred knuckles are stark white. "They’re not even trying to be subtle. They’re just staying three cars back."
I turn in my seat to look through the rear window. "Don't look," Mikhail barks, his hand coming out to grip my thigh, pinning me in place. "Keep your eyes forward. Act like we haven't noticed."
"Act like we haven't noticed?" My voice is rising with panic. "With everything that’s been going on, I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a casual drive."
"Oh, I’m not planning on a casual drive," he says.
Suddenly, his foot hits the pedal.
The V12 engine screams. The sheer force of the acceleration slams my back into the leather seat, the wind knocked out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. The tires lose traction for a split second, squealing violently against the damp asphalt before biting down.
Behind us, the gray sedan instantly matches our speed, its nose dipping as it guns its engine to close the gap.
"Mikhail!" I scream, my hand flying to the door handle, my nails digging into the leather. "What are you doing?"
"Shaking them," he growls. “Sit tight, Irina.”
He yanks the wheel to the right. The Aston Martin swerves violently into a narrow side street, the rear end drifting slightly on the wet pavement. I can hear the metallic scrape of the undercarriage hitting a dip in the road, a sound that makes my teeth rattle. We’re flying down a residential block now, past parked delivery vans and brownstones, the speed digital readout climbing.
A wild, terrifying panic is clawing at my throat. My chest feels tight, my breathing coming in short, useless gasps as I watch a yellow taxi pull out of an intersection directly ahead of us.
"Mikhail! Watch out!"
He doesn't brake. He downshifts, the engine roaring in protest, and swerves around the front bumper of the taxi with inches to spare. The horn of the cab blares, a long, angry shriek that fades instantly as we blast through the intersection. My stomach feels like it’s floating in my throat, a sick, dizzying wave of nausea hitting me as we near-miss a concrete barrier.
"Hold on," Mikhail commands, his voice completely level despite the chaos.
He reaches for the dashboard console, hitting a button on his Bluetooth display. It dials automatically.
"Lev," Mikhail says into the cabin as the phone connects.
"Boss? Where are you? We lost your signal near the bridge."
"We’ve got a tail. Gray Dodge. They’re aggressive. I’m heading down Grand toward the industrial sector. Set up the blockade near the warehouse gates."
"We're on it. Three minutes."
A loud, dullthudrattles the rear of the car.
I scream, my head snapping back. The gray sedan has caught up, its front bumper slamming into our rear fender. The impact sends the Aston Martin into a dangerous wobble, the tail fishtailing on the wet street.
"Gospodi, Mikhail! They're hitting us!" I’m clutching the seat now, my eyes wide with a raw, primal terror. The buildings outside are a blur of gray and red, and all I can think about is that if we crash, I’ll never see my boy. I’ll die in a crumpled piece of steel on a dirty Brooklyn street. "Stop the car! Just let them have whatever they want!"
"They want us dead," Mikhail growls, his face a hard, terrifying mask of concentration. "I’m not stopping."
