Chapter 4 - Blood and Broken Glass
The world exploded into motion.
The driver slammed the accelerator, throwing me backward against the leather upholstery. I threw my entire body over Sophie, curling into a ball on the carpeted floorboard. Sophie let out a terrified wail, her tiny hands clawing into my collar.
Crack!
A concussive shockwave rattled the vehicle as a bullet struck the rear reinforced glass, spiderwebbing the outer layer but failing to penetrate. Tires shrieked against slick asphalt. The heavy SUV swerved violently to the left, ramming an intercepting vehicle with bone-crushing force. The sound of shearing metal screamed through the cabin.
“Hold on!” Ethan barked.
He didn't fire blindly. He pressed a button on the armrest, and a hidden viewport slit opened in the rear partition. Through the gap, I heard the rapid, deafening staccato of automatic gunfire from our pursuers. Ethan leaned into the opening, fired three measured, rhythmic shots, and closed the steel latch.
Outside, an explosion of shattered fiberglass was followed by the screech of a vehicle spinning out of control across the median, crashing violently into the concrete barrier.
“One down,” the driver called out, his breathing labored. “Second one is trying to pit us before the bridge!”
I was weeping silently, my tears soaking Sophie’s tiny curls. “Please,” I whispered into the dark carpet. “Please, God, don’t let them hurt her. Take me, just don’t hurt my baby...”
A heavy, warm hand came down on the back of my neck. Ethan’s hand.
His grip was firm, grounding, an anchor in the middle of a warzone. “Look at me, Rachel.”
I forced my tear-streaked face up. Ethan was looking down at me, his weapon resting loosely in his right hand, his eyes completely steady amidst the chaos. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in him. Only a dark, calculating predator doing what he had been born to do.
“Nobody touches your child while I’m breathing,” he said, every syllable hammered in steel. “Do you hear me? Look at my eyes. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I gasped, clutching Sophie until my knuckles turned white.
“Marco,” Ethan said calmly to the driver. “Take the lower river tunnel. Seal the gate behind us.”
“On it, Mr. Callahan.”
The vehicle plunged down a steep concrete ramp, escaping the glare of the highway into the subterranean darkness of Chicago’s Lower Wacker Drive. The roar of rain and pursuing engines abruptly faded, replaced by the damp echo of water dripping from overhead subway lines.
The Escalade screeched through an iron security gate that descended like a guillotine the second our rear bumper cleared the sensor. Behind us, the second pursuing SUV slammed into the steel barriers, tires smoking, trapped on the other side of Callahan territory.
We rolled into a cavernous underground garage lit by pale fluorescent bulbs. Waiting for us were a dozen men dressed in matching tactical gear, weapons lowered, standing at attention.
The driver killed the engine. The silence was deafening.
Ethan stood, holstered his weapon, and stepped out into the garage. He turned and offered me his hand. His palm was calloused, warm, and steady as bedrock.
May you like
“Welcome to Chicago, Rachel,” he said, extending his hand down to me. “You’re in Callahan territory now. Nothing moves here without my permission.”
Trembling, my legs barely holding my weight, I placed my cold hand in his and stepped out into the shadows.
