CHAPTER 14 #2
Outside, the reload is finished. A concentrated, automatic burst of fire targets the driver's side A-pillar.
The sustained impact hits the exact same spot until the glass gives way with a horrific crash.
A hole the size of a fist punches straight through the reinforcement.
Vanya lets out a wet, choked sound in the front seat, his body jerking violently as several rounds find their mark.
The scent of blood hits the air instantly.
Vanya slumps forward, his dead weight pinning the steering wheel hard to the left.
The massive SUV immediately enters a long, high-speed, uncontrolled slide.
Bright crimson blood sprays across the beige leather dashboard, painting the plastic in a terrifying pattern. The pilot is gone. Physics takes over.
"Vanya! Vanya, answer me!" Leon yells, the vibration of his voice rumbling against my spine.
"He’s gone, Leon! Grab the wheel!" I scream, the sickening lurch of the vehicle pulling my stomach into my throat. The tires scream a high-pitched wail against the concrete.
"I can't reach it! Hold on!" Leon shouts, locking his arms tighter around me.
I know the math of this. The trajectory is entirely fucked. We are going to hit concrete, and we are going to hit it hard. I tuck my chin into my chest, clamp my eyes shut, and brace for the impact.
The collision is a bone-jarring, catastrophic symphony of shrieking metal and tearing steel.
The front left corner of the armored beast clips a massive concrete pillar.
The momentum spins the vehicle wildly, slamming the rear end right into a second support column.
The airbags deploy with a series of muffled, concussive explosions, instantly filling the entire cabin with a fine, blinding white dust and the acrid, chemical smell of propellant.
My head snaps backward against the seat base, my teeth slamming together.
I taste hot copper as I bite down hard on the side of my tongue.
The engine dies instantly with a final, pathetic hiss of steam and leaking coolant.
"Don't move... just breathe," Leon gasps, his weight shifting slightly off my lungs.
"Leon... are you... can you hear me?" I choke out, my ears ringing with a high-pitched frequency that drowns out the world.
"I'm here. I'm here," he rasps.
Leon is the first to truly recover. He pushes himself up from the floorboards, his movements stiff and jerky.
I look up. His face is smeared with blood where his forehead clipped the back of the front seat, but his ice-blue eyes are wide and completely frantic.
He looks terrified—not for himself, but for me.
He grabs my shoulders, his grip borderline bruising, and shakes me slightly to force my pupils to track him.
His hands are trembling with this wild, uncharacteristic energy as his eyes scan every inch of my body.
He reaches out and wipes a smudge of white airbag dust off my cheek, his thumb slick with his own warm blood.
"Look at me. Are you hit? Tell me!" he demands, his voice cracking with rage.
"I'm okay. I'm okay. Leon, your head—"
"Doesn't matter. We need to get out of this cage," he cuts me off, his survival instincts completely taking over.
I peer through the spiderwebbed, blown-out glass.
Through the chemical haze drifting beneath the underpass, I spot the silhouettes of four men.
They are dismounting their sedans and moving on foot.
They aren’t rushing. They fan out with cold military precision, their weapons raised, executing a textbook sweep of the wreck.
The spray-and-pray is over; they are taking their time now, aiming for the compromised gaps in the armor, systematically "walking" their fire toward the cabin.
A red laser dot from a rifle sight dances lazily across the leather headrest just inches above my skull.
"Four targets. Professional. They’re flanking," I state, my brain cataloging the threat vectors instantly.
"Stay on the floor, Alessia. That’s an order," Leon growls, reaching inside his tailored jacket.
"Orders don't stop bullets, Leon!" I snap back.
He ignores me and pulls a heavy, customized black handgun from a sleek shoulder holster.
He angles himself toward the rear passenger door, which is jammed completely shut from the frame warping in the crash.
He starts kicking at the steel panel with the full, desperate force of his legs.
His face is contorted into a mask of pure, suicidal rage.
He intends to bust out and draw their fire, taking the bullets so I can hide in the wreckage like a fucking damsel.
I grab his sleeve, my manicured nails digging deep into the expensive wool fabric, trying to haul him back down.
"I’m going out. When I do, you crawl out the other side and run for the shadows," he barks, kicking the door again with a heavy thud.
"You'll be dead before you hit the pavement!" I yell at him, my tactical training screaming against this absolute bullshit plan.
"Then I'll be dead. You'll be alive. Stay down!" he roars, his eyes wild with a protective fury that actually makes my chest ache.
I let go of his arm. I am not letting him throw his life away for me. I am a trained federal weapon, and I am not dying in this metal box.
I scramble over the wrecked center console, ignoring the sharp bite of broken safety glass slicing into my palms and knees.
I drag my body over Vanya’s slumped, bleeding form.
My hands move with a cold, clinical precision that I haven't felt in months.
I unclip Vanya's tactical holster, slide the Glock 17 free from the polymer retention, and pull it back.
The weight of the steel and polymer in my grip feels like a phantom limb suddenly reattaching.
I wipe Vanya's thick, slick blood off the grip directly onto my silk skirt, establishing a firm, two-handed stance in the cramped space.
"Alessia, what the fuck are you doing?" Leon demands, freezing mid-kick as he looks back at me.
"Something I'm better at than you," I tell him, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
"Give me that gun!" he orders, reaching for me.
I ignore him entirely. With a sharp flick of my wrist, I drop the magazine into my left hand, check the load—full—slam it back home with the heel of my palm, and aggressively rack the slide.
The clack-clack of the action echoing in the small cabin is the sexiest sound I’ve heard in three years.
I thumb the safety off and square my shoulders.
Leon stops moving. He just stares at me. The terror in his eyes burns away, replaced instantly by this dark, utterly predatory pride. He sees the killer they trained at Quantico, the asset he just bought and paid for.
I test the weight of the gun, my right hand rock-steady. "You know how to use that?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, practically purring the words.
"I was top of my class at Quantico. I don't miss, Leon."
"Then show them why they should have stayed in their cars," he grins, a feral showing of teeth.
"On three," I say.
Leon nods. He delivers one final, massive kick to the rear door.
The warped latch completely shears off, and the heavy metal swings outward.
He rolls out low, hitting the concrete, and immediately opens up with aggressive suppression fire.
A split second later, I kick my own cracked door open and slide out onto the asphalt, keeping my profile tight behind the massive engine block.
I don't panic-fire. I rest my shoulder against the blistering hot metal of the SUV's crushed hood to stabilize my arm, staring down the iron sights.
"Left pillar! Twelve o'clock!" I call out, tracking a shadow moving through the smoke.
"I've got him! Watch the rear!" Leon yells back, sending two rounds into a man’s chest and dropping him on the spot.
"Go!" I shout, pulling the trigger.
My Glock barks in highly disciplined, three-round bursts.
I aim directly for the concrete edges of their cover, forcing the remaining hitmen to tuck their heads and break their lines of sight.
Leon moves aggressively, stalking toward a support column to close the distance, but the two surviving shooters answer with a desperate hail of automatic fire that forces him to dive behind a concrete pylon. He’s completely pinned.
Out of my periphery, I catch movement. One of the hitmen is peeling off from the main engagement, using the thick shadows of the bridge supports to circle wide around Leon's position. He’s setting up a perfect flank.
I pivot sharply to track him. My right heel snaps completely off the shoe, sending a spike of pain up my ankle. I don't even hesitate. I kick both heels off entirely, my bare feet hitting the cold, gritty, glass-strewn asphalt.
"Leon, stay down! They're moving left!" I scream over the gunfire.
"I can't see them!"
"I’ve got the angle! Don't move!"
I track the flanker. He moves fast, utterly convinced he’s invisible in the dark. He raises his weapon, leveling the barrel directly at the side of Leon’s head as Leon attempts to reload. He steps into a sliver of ambient light from a broken streetlamp for exactly one second.
I don't think. I don't analyze the morality of breaking my badge. I lead the target, exhale slowly, and squeeze the trigger.
Pop. Pop.
The first 9mm round catches him high in the right shoulder, the kinetic impact violently spinning his body around.
The second round punches dead center into his chest. I don't blink as I watch the man crumple to the pavement like a puppet with its strings abruptly severed.
The recoil jumps cleanly through my arm.
The smell of burnt gunpowder fills my nose.
I immediately sweep the sights, searching for the next target.
"Target down!" I yell, the words tasting like copper.
"Clear!" Leon shouts.
"Leon, move! Now!"