Chapter 6 - The Ambush on the Parkway
The victory at the gala was decisive, but men like Julian Vance did not quietly accept prison sentences.
Three nights later, Dominic and I were returning from a late meeting with the federal prosecutors in lower Manhattan. Rain lashed against the windshield of our armored SUV as we moved north along the Henry Hudson Parkway. The city was a blur of smeared brake lights and gray mist.
I was cross-referencing an offshore ledger on my tablet when Dominic’s phone vibrated.
He answered it, listened for two seconds, and his entire body went rigid. “Brace yourself,” he said, reaching across the console to pull me toward him.
Before I could ask why, a heavy black commercial flatbed truck surged out of an exit ramp, cutting diagonally across two lanes of traffic. It struck our SUV on the passenger side with a deafening screech of tearing metal.
The vehicle spun across the wet asphalt, the reinforced glass spider-webbing instantly under the violent impact. Our driver fought the wheel, slamming the SUV against the concrete barrier, bringing us to a shuddering halt.
Smoke hissed from the crumpled hood.
“Nora! Are you hit?” Dominic’s voice was rough, urgent. His arms were wrapped around me, his body shielding mine against the buckled door.
“I’m fine,” I gasped, though my ribs ached from the seatbelt. “Dominic, look.”
Through the shattered front window, two men in tactical gear stepped out of the flatbed, raising submachine guns.
Our driver was unconscious, slumped over the deployed airbag.
“Stay down,” Dominic ordered, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute calm. He reached into the glove compartment, retrieved a sleek black automatic weapon, and pulled a spare magazine from his coat.
“They aren't here to negotiate,” I whispered.
“Neither am I,” Dominic replied.
He kicked his door open into the rain. Gunfire erupted immediately, bullets pinging off the armored door panels. Dominic fired three deliberate, controlled shots through the gap. One of the shooters collapsed instantly on the slick pavement.
The second shooter retreated behind the engine block of the truck, laying down suppressing fire.
I knew the layout of those flatbeds—I had audited logistics fleet specs for three years. “Dominic!” I shouted over the crack of gunfire. “The fuel reserve line on that model isn't under the cab—it’s exposed behind the rear axle on the left!”
Dominic didn't hesitate. He dropped low, aimed beneath the chassis of the flatbed, and fired twice into the exposed auxiliary tank.
A sharp spark caught the diesel vapor. An explosion rocked the parkway, sending a shockwave of heat through the rain and knocking the remaining shooter flat onto the tarmac.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Vale security backup vehicles were already screaming down the shoulder, their strobes cutting through the fog.
Dominic holstered his weapon, hurried back to my side, and yanked the buckled door open with his bare hands. He pulled me out into the cold rain, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I could feel the pounding rhythm of his heart against my chest.
He buried his face in my wet hair, his breath ragged. “You're safe. I have you.”
May you like
I clung to his coat, shivering not from the cold, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that for the first time in my life, someone had put himself between me and the fire.
***
