Chapter 2 - The Sedan in the Rearview
The speedometer climbed to sixty, then seventy, as my old sedan rattled down the damp Chicago avenue.
“Who are they?!” I yelled into the phone, stealing another frantic glance at the rearview mirror.
The black sedan wasn't just following me anymore. It was hunting. It surged forward, the heavy front bumper slamming violently into my rear bumper.
The impact threw me forward against the seatbelt. The steering wheel jerked in my hands, tires squealing against the wet asphalt as I fought to keep the car from spinning out.
“Emma! Are you hit?” the voice on the phone demanded. It was the same calm voice that had spoken to me in the garage, the guard Dante had stopped from hurting me.
“They just rammed me!” I gasped, stomping on the accelerator, blowing through a red light at an empty intersection. “They’re trying to run me off the road!”
“Listen to me,” the guard said, the calm breaking just a fraction, revealing a razor-sharp tactical edge. “My name is Luca. You are exactly four blocks from St. Matthew's. You need to get into the hospital lobby. There is a security presence there. They won't grab you in front of cameras and witnesses.”
“What about Lily?” I sobbed, the image of my daughter sitting in the overnight daycare flashing before my eyes. “I have to get her!”
“My men are already at the daycare, Emma. She is secure. Do exactly what I say, and you will see her again.”
Another violent impact hit my rear bumper. This time, the black sedan pulled alongside my left rear quarter panel, performing a textbook PIT maneuver.
My car spun.
The world outside the windows became a dizzying blur of streetlights and storefronts. I screamed, slamming both feet on the brake pedal. The car spun a full 180 degrees before slamming backward into a fire hydrant on the curb with a sickening crunch of metal.
The engine choked and died. Steam hissed from the crumpled hood.
I sat frozen, the airbag failing to deploy in the old car, my chest heaving with terrified breaths.
I looked up.
The black sedan had stopped twenty feet away, blocking the street.
The driver and passenger doors opened simultaneously.
Two men stepped out. They didn't look like mobsters in tailored suits. They wore dark tactical gear, heavy boots, and ski masks. And they were holding suppressed weapons.
“Luca,” I whimpered into the phone, ducking down beneath the dashboard. “They’re getting out. They have guns.”
“Where are you?” Luca demanded.
“I crashed. Oak and State Street. I didn't make it to the hospital.”
“Get out of the car, Emma. Run.”
“I can't!”
“RUN!”
The absolute, commanding terror in his voice broke through my paralysis.
I kicked the driver’s side door open, scrambling out onto the wet pavement just as the sound of suppressed gunfire—pfft, pfft, pfft—shattered the glass of my rear window.
I didn't look back. I ran.
I sprinted down the narrow alleyway beside a closed bakery, my nursing clogs slipping on the slick cobblestones. I could hear their heavy boots pounding on the pavement behind me.
I turned a corner, diving behind a row of massive metal dumpsters, pressing my back against the brick wall, clutching my chest to muffle the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Footsteps slowed at the mouth of the alley.
“She’s in here,” a voice rasped. Not Italian. Not local. It sounded Eastern European.
“Find her. We need the drive before Moretti’s men show up.”
The drive.
My heart hammered against my ribs. What drive? The injured man in the garage hadn't given me anything. I just checked his pulse and cleaned his wound.
But as I pressed my hands against my scrub pockets, my fingers brushed against something hard and unfamiliar.
I slowly, silently reached into my left pocket.
It was a small, heavy silver flash drive.
I stared at it in the dim light of the alley. I hadn't put it there.
Then, a memory flashed in my mind. When I was leaning over Anthony, the bleeding man in the garage, he had grabbed my arm, begging for help. His bloody hand had brushed against my pocket.
He had slipped it to me.
He didn't just want medical help. He wanted a courier.
“Over by the dumpsters,” the second man hissed.
A tactical flashlight beam swept across the brick wall inches above my head.
I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the flash drive tightly. I was going to die in an alley over something I didn't even know I had.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic squeal echoed from the street.
A massive, black armored SUV tore into the mouth of the alley, blocking the exit entirely. The high beams pinned the two masked men in blinding white light.
“Moretti!” one of the men yelled, raising his weapon toward the SUV.
He didn't get the chance to fire.
The rear doors of the SUV opened, and three men stepped out. They didn't yell. They didn't negotiate.
A deafening barrage of gunfire erupted in the confined alley.
I covered my ears, screaming into my knees as the concrete around me splintered and cracked.
The gunfire lasted only five seconds.
Then, silence.
“Clear!” a voice shouted.
I remained curled in a ball behind the dumpster, trembling violently.
Slowly, carefully, footsteps approached my hiding spot.
I opened my eyes.
Standing over me, illuminated by the headlights of the SUV, was Dante Moretti.
He had discarded the suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and he held a sleek, smoking handgun at his side. The calm, boardroom demeanor was gone, replaced by a cold, predatory lethality that was infinitely more terrifying.
He looked down at me, his dark eyes scanning me for injuries.
“Are you hit, Emma?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
“No,” I choked out, shaking my head.
He extended a hand.
I looked at it, remembering the blood on the garage floor, the dead men lying just feet away.
But I also remembered Lily.
I took his hand. He pulled me up effortlessly, shielding my body with his own as he guided me toward the armored SUV.
“Get in,” he ordered, pushing me into the back seat.
Luca was sitting in the front passenger seat, turning to look at me as I scrambled in.
“You did exactly what I told you,” Luca said, a strange, approving note in his voice.
Dante slid in beside me, slamming the door. The SUV immediately reversed out of the alley, leaving the bodies behind.
“Where is my daughter?” I demanded, the adrenaline finally overriding my fear. “You said she was safe.”
Dante looked at me.
“She is safe,” Dante promised. “She is at my private estate. The men who attacked you were part of a rival syndicate. They want what Anthony stole from me. And they knew he passed it to you.”
He held out his hand.
“Give me the drive, Emma.”
I stared at his open palm.
“If I give it to you,” I whispered, “what happens to me and Lily?”
Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“If you give it to me, you go back to your quiet life. If you don't...”
He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to.
I slowly reached into my pocket, pulling out the silver flash drive. I placed it in his hand.
Dante examined it, a grim satisfaction settling over his features.
“Good,” he said, slipping it into his pocket.
But as he did, his phone buzzed sharply.
He pulled it out, looking at a text message. His face instantly drained of all color, the predatory confidence shattering completely.
“Luca,” Dante breathed, his voice tight with sudden, unadulterated panic. “Turn the car around.”
“Boss?” Luca asked, alarmed by the shift.
“The drive Anthony stole was a decoy,” Dante said, staring at the phone. “The real files are missing.”
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He turned to me, his dark eyes filled with a terror that mirrored my own.
“And the men guarding my estate just went dark. They have your daughter.”
