Chapter 8 - The Burning SUV
The world spun into a chaotic blur of shattering glass, tearing metal, and blinding orange light.
The armored SUV flipped violently, slamming onto its roof and skidding across the wet asphalt of the highway with an agonizing screech. Sparks rained down like horrific fireworks.
When the vehicle finally ground to a halt, the silence was deafening, broken only by the hiss of rain hitting hot metal.
I was hanging upside down, held by my seatbelt. My ears were ringing so loudly I couldn't hear my own ragged breathing. Smoke filled the cabin, thick and suffocating.
"Marcus?" I choked out, coughing violently.
I turned my head. Marcus was slumped against the crushed steering wheel. Blood was trickling down his forehead, but I saw his chest rise and fall. He was unconscious, but alive.
The explosion had blown the back doors completely off, but the heavy armor plating of the SUV had absorbed the worst of the blast, saving us from being instantly incinerated.
I fumbled blindly for the seatbelt release. My fingers were slick with rain and blood from a shallow cut on my cheek.
Click.
I crashed awkwardly to the roof of the cabin, groaning as pain flared in my shoulder.
"Marcus, wake up!" I yelled, shaking his heavy arm. He didn't stir.
Flames were beginning to lick at the dashboard. We had seconds before the gas tank caught.
I crawled through the broken window, dragging myself out into the freezing rain. The highway was deserted, the late-night storm keeping traffic away.
I grabbed Marcus by the collar of his suit jacket and pulled with every ounce of strength I had. He was dead weight, incredibly heavy. I screamed in frustration, my boots slipping on the wet asphalt, but I managed to drag him out of the burning wreck and behind the concrete median.
Seconds later, the SUV erupted in a massive fireball, the heat washing over us in a terrifying wave.
I collapsed against the wet concrete, gasping for air, clutching my ribs.
Dominic Bellini hadn't just set a trap at the harbor. He had planted a bomb on Marcus's SUV while it was parked outside the club. He was systematically eliminating anyone connected to Luca.
Marcus groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He touched his bleeding head and looked at the burning wreckage.
"The boss," Marcus grunted, struggling to sit up. "Dominic is going to ambush him at Pier 39. We have to warn him."
He reached for his belt, but his radio had been destroyed in the crash.
"I have my phone," I said, pulling it from my pocket. Miraculously, the screen wasn't cracked.
I dialed Luca’s number. It rang. And rang. And rang.
Voicemail.
"He's not answering," I panicked.
Marcus grimaced, pulling a sleek, silver handgun from his ankle holster. "He’s probably already at the harbor. Maintaining radio silence before a strike. We have to go."
"Go?" I stared at him, incredulous. "We were just blown up! You have a concussion! We need an ambulance!"
"If we wait for an ambulance, Luca dies," Marcus said grimly, forcing himself to his feet. He swayed slightly but locked his knees. "I'm going. You stay here and wait for the police. You’ve done enough, Natalie."
He turned and started limping down the dark, rainy highway toward the city lights.
I watched him go. I thought about the money. I thought about leaving this violent, terrifying world behind.
But then I thought about Michael, weeping on the train platform. I thought about Jenna, terrified and alone. I thought about Luca, the ruthless Mafia Don who had treated a housemaid with more respect than his own fiancée.
If Luca died tonight, Dominic Bellini would win. The murders would be covered up, and Michael would take the fall.
"Wait," I yelled, pushing myself up from the concrete.
Marcus stopped and looked back.
"I know how to get into Pier 39 without being seen," I said, jogging to catch up with him. "My father was a dockworker there for twenty years. He showed me the old smuggling tunnels under the loading bays."
Marcus stared at me, a mixture of shock and genuine respect in his eyes.
"You're full of surprises, Natalie Brooks," Marcus muttered.
Ten minutes later, we flagged down a terrified taxi driver, handed him a bloody wad of cash, and ordered him to drive to the south harbor.
The rain was falling harder when we arrived at Pier 39. The massive shipping containers loomed like steel mountains in the dark.
I led Marcus past the heavily guarded main gates, slipping through a rusted chain-link fence near the waterline. The smell of salt, diesel, and rotting wood filled the air.
"The tunnel is under the old cannery building," I whispered, pointing to a dilapidated brick warehouse sitting on the edge of the pier.
We crept through the shadows. I found the heavy iron grate hidden beneath a pile of discarded fishing nets. We pulled it open and descended into the dark, damp tunnel.
It smelled like dead fish and stagnant water.
We waded through ankle-deep muck, moving silently beneath the concrete pier. Above us, the heavy thud of combat boots echoed. Dominic's men were everywhere.
"Stop," Marcus whispered, holding up his hand.
Up ahead, a grate in the ceiling allowed light to filter down from the warehouse floor above.
We crept closer and looked up through the iron bars.
The warehouse was massive and brightly lit.
In the center of the room, tied to a heavy wooden chair, was Michael Moretti. His face was bruised and bleeding.
Standing over him, holding a thick manila folder, was Dominic Bellini.
But what made my blood run cold wasn't Michael.
It was the person standing next to Dominic.
May you like
It was Jenna.
And she was holding a gun, aimed directly at her father’s head.
