Chapter 4 - The Highway to Brooklyn
The rain had turned into a blinding downpour as Alara navigated the sleek, heavily armored black sedan down the dark, slick lanes of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
The car ran like a phantom—engine quiet, windows tinted to pitch darkness, equipped with run-flat tires and reinforced steel framing. In the back seat, Leo and Stella were securely strapped into high-grade infant car seats Jack had prepared beforehand. Both babies were sound asleep, lulled by the steady hum of the engine.
In the passenger seat, Jack lay slumped against the door, his chest rising in slow, ragged hitches. His skin was burning hot to the touch.
"Jack," Alara called out, keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror. "Stay with me. Talk to me."
"I'm awake," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the roaring rain against the windshield.
"You're running a fever. The wound is infected," she said, her medical training taking over her panic. "There’s an emergency kit in the glove box. Is there antibiotics in there?"
"Top compartment," Jack instructed weakly. "Ceftriaxone. Pre-filled syringe."
Alara reached over while maintaining sixty miles per hour on the slick highway, popped the glove box, and pulled out a military-grade medical case. Inside were sterile IV bags, surgical tools, and auto-injectors loaded with broad-spectrum antibiotics.
"I need you to hold your sleeve up," she commanded.
"Just stick it through the shirt," he growled softly.
Alara didn't argue. She uncapped the auto-injector and pressed it firmly into his outer thigh until it clicked. Jack let out a long, shuddering breath, his body relaxing slightly as the medicine began to distribute through his system.
"Who are the Rostovs, Jack?" she asked, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel. "If I'm risking my life driving your car, I deserve to know whose hit list I just added myself to."
Jack turned his head slowly, looking at her profile illuminated by the green dashboard lights.
"Nikolai Rostov," Jack said quietly. "He controls the largest private military outfit in Eastern Europe. For fifteen years, my brother and I ran Vance Global Securities—a private intelligence firm that kept Rostov’s expansion out of the United States."
"Vance..." Alara murmured, the piece finally clicking. "Your real name isn't Jack."
"Jackson Vance," he admitted. "Former Marine Recon. Co-founder of Vance Global. Six months ago, my brother discovered Rostov was laundering money through corrupt state senators. Rostov bought off my brother's inner guard. He ordered the hit on the estate to claim Vance Global's assets and silence the family line forever."
"And the babies?"
"They are the sole legal heirs to my brother’s trust," Jackson said, his tone turning cold and resolute. "If Leo and Stella die, control of the company reverts to the board of directors—a board that Rostov now controls. Those two infants are standing in the way of a three-billion-dollar empire."
Alara swallowed hard. She wasn't just dealing with street criminals. She was trapped in the middle of a corporate war fought with high-caliber weapons and infinite resources.
"Take the next exit," Jackson instructed suddenly, his posture snapping erect despite his fever. "Exit 24."
Alara flipped the turn signal, smoothly cutting across two lanes of traffic toward the ramp.
"Don't look now," Jackson added, reaching down to unholster his sidearm from his hip. "But the grey van three cars back has been following our lane changes since the bridge."
Alara checked her side mirror. A non-descript grey Ford transit van was riding her tail, its high beams flashing once, twice—a signal.
"Hold on to the wheel," Jackson said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm operational tone. "When I tell you to step on the gas, floor it."
May you like
"Jackson, you can barely sit up!"
"I don't need to sit up to shoot, Alara," Jackson said, racking the slide of his pistol with a single, practiced hand. "Floor it!"
