CHAPTER 17 THE GETAWAY POV SYBIL
The wail of the federal sirens is not a sound. It is a physical vibration that burrows deep into the earth, vibrating up through the soles of my boots and rattling the marrow inside my bones.
It is the sound of the entire world crashing down around us.
"Burn them!" Dante roars, his voice entirely shredding over the chaotic, deafening symphony of the storm and the approaching police cruisers.
I stand frozen in the freezing mud of the railyard, my chest heaving with violent, jagged gasps of air.
The lifeless body of Arthur Vance—my father—lies crumpled in the gravel less than ten feet away.
The rain is already washing the mud and the blood from his pale, lifeless face, but I feel absolutely nothing.
No grief. No horror. The only thing that registers in my shattered, completely rewired brain is the terrifying, crushing weight of Thayer’s right arm wrapped securely around my waist.
Syndicate soldiers scramble through the rusted labyrinth of the derailed train cars.
Heavy plastic jerrycans are hauled from the trunks of the armored SUVs.
The sharp, toxic scent of gasoline rapidly overpowers the smell of rain and wet iron.
They douse the million-dollar vehicles, completely soaking the leather interiors and the bulletproof chassis.
"Boss, we have less than three minutes before they breach the outer access road!" Dante shouts, throwing an empty jerrycan into the mud. He pulls a flare from his tactical vest, his thumb hovering over the ignition cap. "The ghost car is parked behind the collapsed silo on the east ridge. Go!"
Thayer doesn't hesitate. He doesn't look back at the empire he is abandoning or the corpse of the man who triggered its downfall. He tightens his iron grip on my waist, hauling me entirely against his side.
"Move, Sybil," he growls, his voice a low, demonic vibration that completely cuts through the blinding panic clouding my vision.
We run.
The terrain is a catastrophic nightmare of jagged metal, broken glass, and deep, freezing puddles of oily water.
My boots slip and slide against the treacherous ground, but Thayer’s immense physical strength keeps me completely upright.
We plunge into the pitch-black shadows of the skeletal industrial ruins, leaving the clearing behind.
Seconds later, a massive, earth-shattering whoosh of ignition detonates behind us.
A wall of blinding, searing orange heat hits my back, instantly vaporizing the freezing rain clinging to my sweater.
The armored SUVs explode into towering pillars of fire, the violent inferno lighting up the dark, stormy sky, effectively destroying any physical evidence, any DNA, and creating an impenetrable barricade of flames between us and the approaching federal agents.
Thayer doesn't slow down. He drags me up a steep, muddy incline toward a massive, collapsed concrete silo.
His breathing is turning ragged, a heavy, wet rasp that betrays the excruciating physical toll the sprint is taking on his torn, recently stitched shoulder.
I can feel the unnatural heat radiating from his skin, the fever from the cabin threatening to claw its way back to the surface.
We round the corner of the crumbling concrete structure.
Hidden entirely beneath a heavy, camouflage tarp is a vehicle. It isn't an armored, matte-black Syndicate SUV. It is an old, battered, dark gray 1970s muscle car. A ghost car. Completely unregistered, entirely analog, and invisible to modern tracking technology.
Thayer reaches out and violently rips the heavy tarp off the hood. He pulls a single, brass key from the inner pocket of his charcoal topcoat.
He turns to me.
His pale, glacial gray eyes are completely blown, the pupils entirely swallowing the irises. The bruised, bloody gash on his cheekbone stands out starkly against his ashen skin. He is swaying slightly, the adrenaline crash finally beginning to dismantle his iron-clad control.
He holds the brass key out to me.
"I can't shift the gears," Thayer rasps, his left arm hanging completely useless, pressed tightly against his ruined chest. "You drive."
I stare at the small piece of metal resting in his massive, blood-stained palm.
My heart completely stops. The air in my lungs turns to solid concrete.
I have never driven a getaway car. I have never been behind the wheel of a vehicle while fleeing a federal raid. For eighteen years, I was a passenger in my own life, driven by armed guards, completely forbidden from taking the wheel of my own destiny.
But the wail of the sirens is deafening now.
The flashing red and blue lights are cutting through the heavy smoke of the burning SUVs, painting the rainy sky in violent, strobing colors.
They are coming for him. They are coming to lock the monster in a concrete box for the rest of his life, and they will lock me away right beside him as an accomplice to murder.
I look at Thayer’s face. He isn't asking. He is entirely handing me the absolute control of our survival.
The last fragile, terrified remnant of the girl I used to be completely burns away in the ashes of the railyard.
I snatch the key from his hand.
I run to the driver’s side door, ripping it open. The interior smells of stale dust and old leather. I slide into the deep bucket seat, my wet boots finding the heavy metal pedals. Thayer practically collapses into the passenger seat, hauling the heavy door shut behind him.
I jam the key into the ignition and twist it hard.
The massive V8 engine doesn't just start; it violently roars to life, a guttural, mechanical scream that shakes the entire chassis of the old car.
"Headlights off," Thayer commands, his head falling back against the headrest, his chest heaving as he bites back a groan of pure agony. "Take the dirt access road along the river. It drops beneath the highway overpass. Do not stop until we cross the state line."
I reach down, my trembling fingers finding the cold, metal sphere of the manual gear shift. I slam my foot onto the heavy clutch. The resistance is brutal, requiring genuine physical force to compress. I shove the shifter into first gear.
The tires spin wildly in the wet mud for a fraction of a second, fighting for traction, before the heavy rubber bites into the earth.
The car launches forward, pinning my spine against the leather seat.
We tear down the dark, unlit access road, entirely consumed by the pitch-black shadows of the riverbank.
I drive by the faint, ambient glow of the burning railyard in the rearview mirror and the intermittent flashes of lightning illuminating the treacherous, flooded path ahead.
The steering wheel is heavy, requiring a white-knuckled, desperate grip to keep the heavy muscle car from sliding into the rushing waters of the Chicago River.
The sirens fade into a distant, frantic hum, completely muffled by the violent roar of the V8 engine.
I am driving the getaway car. I am fleeing a murder scene. I am officially a federal fugitive.
The realization should induce a crippling, debilitating panic attack. It should make my throat close up and my vision blur with dark, fuzzy static. But the only thing pumping through my veins is pure, blinding, high-octane adrenaline.
I shift into second gear, the engine whining as I push the speed faster, navigating the blind curves of the dirt road with a reckless, terrifying precision I didn't know I possessed.
I glance to my right.
Thayer is watching me. His head is turned on the leather headrest, his pale, piercing eyes locked entirely onto my profile.
He isn't looking at the road. He isn't checking the rearview mirror for federal cruisers.
Even as he bleeds, even as his empire burns to the ground and the entire United States government mobilizes to hunt him, he is entirely consumed by me.
"Keep your eyes on the road, Sybil," he murmurs, his velvet voice a dark, vibrating hum over the engine noise.
"You're bleeding again," I state, my voice sharp, completely lacking the frantic tremor of fear. I grip the steering wheel tighter. "We need to stop and pack the wound."
"We do not stop," Thayer growls, the stubborn, tyrannical Don refusing to yield to his own biology. "We cross the border into Indiana. Dante arranged a safehouse on the outskirts of Gary. Three hours. You can drive for three hours, little bird."
"I can drive until the gas tank runs dry," I snap back, my foot pressing harder onto the accelerator, entirely embracing the darkness.
We hit the paved surface of the abandoned industrial highway, merging into the sparse, early-morning traffic of commercial semi-trucks. I finally flick the headlights on, blending the ghost car into the dreary, gray downpour.
The three-hour drive is an exercise in absolute, psychological torture.
The silence inside the cabin is heavy, thick with the unsaid weight of the catastrophic reality we have just entered.
We have nothing. The billions of dollars in offshore accounts, the compound, the army of Syndicate killers—it is all entirely inaccessible.
If we access the accounts, the Feds will track the digital footprint.
We are completely severed from the world, reduced to the cash in Thayer’s pockets and the clothes on our backs.
And Thayer is fading.
The dark, bloodthirsty energy that fueled his execution of my father is completely gone.
His breathing turns shallow and erratic.
The ashen, terrifyingly pale tint of his skin returns.
He refuses to close his eyes, fighting the unconsciousness with a brutal, punishing willpower, but the battle is entirely one-sided.
"Talk to me," I demand, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. We are forty minutes away from the coordinates Dante provided. "Thayer, do not close your eyes. Talk to me."