THE WEDDING AMBUSH

“Tear gas! Get down!” Arthur roared.

He grabbed my heavy wool winter coat from the armchair and threw it over the hissing canister, smothering the immediate output. But the stinging, acrid smoke was already burning my eyes and throat.

“Fire escape!” Arthur ordered, hauling Chloe off the couch.

I grabbed Jason by his ruined collar and dragged him toward the kitchen window. The world outside was a freezing, chaotic blur of rain and flashing high-beams. Two black SUVs had parked horizontally across my street, blocking any exit.

Arthur kicked the fire escape window open, the cold air rushing in to clear our burning lungs. He pushed Chloe out first, then turned to me.

“Go. Down to the alley. My truck is parked two blocks east behind the diner.” He shoved his keys into my hand.

“What about you?” I yelled over the rain.

“I’m buying you three minutes,” Arthur said, his eyes devoid of fear. He racked the slide of his handgun. “Keep our daughter safe.”

Before I could argue, he shoved me out onto the rusted iron grating. Jason followed, coughing violently.

We scrambled down the slick metal stairs in the dark, my bare feet slipping on the icy iron. I kept one arm tightly wrapped around Chloe, refusing to let her fall. When we hit the alley, the sound of heavy boots crashing through my apartment door echoed above us.

Gunfire erupted. Short, controlled bursts. Arthur’s signature rhythm.

Tears streamed down my face, but I didn't stop moving. We ran through the torrential rain, slipping on the wet pavement until we reached the dark alley behind the diner. Arthur’s matte-black tactical truck sat exactly where he said it would be.

I unlocked it, shoved Chloe and Jason into the backseat, and climbed into the driver’s side. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely insert the key into the ignition.

“He’s going to die up there,” Chloe sobbed, staring out the back window into the dark.

“Your father doesn't die easily,” I said, praying my voice sounded stronger than I felt.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic thud hit the bed of the truck.

I jumped, ready to hit the gas. The passenger door ripped open. Arthur climbed in, soaked in rain and blood, breathing heavily. He slammed the door shut and looked at me.

“Drive.”

I slammed the pedal to the floor. The heavy truck roared to life, tearing out of the alley and into the slick city streets.

“Are you hit?” I asked, glancing at his blood-soaked sleeve.

“Grazed,” he grunted, wrapping a torn piece of fabric tightly around his bicep. He turned in his seat to glare at Jason in the back. “Where is she keeping the boy, Jason? Give me an address.”

Jason hesitated, swallowing hard. “The Sterling Estate in the Hamptons. But you can’t just walk in. She has a dozen armed contractors holding the perimeter. They’re professionals.”

“So am I,” Arthur said coldly.

My phone buzzed loudly in the cup holder. The caller ID was restricted.

Arthur tapped the screen, answering on speakerphone.

“Well played, Colonel,” Catherine Sterling’s elegant, dripping voice filled the cabin. “You always were surprisingly fast for an old man.”

“Your men are severely under-trained, Catherine,” Arthur replied evenly.

“A minor setback,” Catherine sighed. “But let’s skip the posturing. I have a five-year-old boy sitting in my drawing room. If you do not bring me the silver key and the signed renunciation papers by 6:00 AM, I am going to let him play in the ocean. The tide is quite rough tonight.”

Jason let out a strangled cry from the backseat.

“You touch that boy, and I will rip your world apart,” Arthur said.

“Six AM, Arthur. Don't be late.”