Chapter 6 - Steel and Rain
The air outside was biting, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and exhaust from the idling engines.
Adrian crouched beside the rear quarter-panel of the SUV, pulling his overcoat back with his left hand to clear his holster. His right shoulder burned—a hot, searing agony that flared up every time he flexed his latissimus dorsi—and somewhere behind his ribs, a familiar, terrifying flutter began to build, a warning tremor from the damaged electrical pathways of his heart.
Not now, he told himself, pressing his teeth together until his jaw ached. Not today.
Fifty yards back, the two Russian sedans had pinned Vincent’s vehicle against the concrete divider. The doors flew open, and four men spilled out into the highway gloom, clad in dark tactical jackets, automatic weapons raised.
Vincent was already out of his vehicle, returning fire from behind the open driver’s side door, his weapon snapping twice in rapid succession. One of the attackers stumbled, dropping to one knee against the Jersey barrier, but the others kept coming, advancing in a textbook flanking maneuver designed to overwhelm a single defender.
Adrian didn't wait for them to finish the crossfire.
Moving with a speed that defied the heavy ache in his shoulder and the warning beats of his failing heart, he broke into a low sprint along the concrete shoulder, utilizing the slope of the grassy embankment as cover.
“Hey!“ he shouted across the dark asphalt.
The lead operative—a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a scar running down from his left ear—whirled around, his weapon tracking toward Adrian before he recognized the face.
“Moretti!“ the man yelled in Russian, raising his submachine gun.
Adrian didn't give him time to clear the safety. Two shots cracked through the pre-dawn air—crisp, flat echoes that bounced off the concrete walls of the highway overpass. The operative’s weapon spun out of his hands as he staggered backward, slamming hard against the side of his own sedan before sliding down into the oily puddle beneath the bumper.
The remaining two attackers scattered, diving behind the hood of the second sedan as return fire chewed up the pavement inches from their boots.
“Boss!“ Vincent yelled from his position thirty yards away, his magazine clicking into place with a sharp metallic snap. “They've got a spotter on the overpass! Watch your six!“
Adrian didn't look up. He dropped into a crouch behind the rear tire of the enemy sedan, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps as the pain in his chest flared into a white-hot spike. The arrhythmia was accelerating now—one, two, three erratic beats, then a sickening pause that made his vision swim at the edges, the gray highway tilting sideways for a fraction of a second.
Breathe, he told himself, his fingers tightening around the checkered grip of his pistol. Just one more minute.
A shadow detached itself from the concrete embankment above them—a fourth man, sliding down the grassy slope with a silenced carbine leveled directly at Adrian’s back.
Before Adrian could pivot, a second set of headlights swept across the grass from the access road behind the embankment. A heavy black pickup truck—belonging to one of Vincent’s backup crews stationed two miles back—slammed through the chain-link fence with a deafening screech of twisted wire and crumpled steel, its bumper catching the spotter square in the chest and sending him tumbling down the slope into the brush.
May you like
The remaining two operatives looked at each other, then down at their fallen leader. With sirens wailing in the distance—state troopers finally responding to 911 calls from passing truckers—they scrambled back into their sedan, threw the car into reverse with tires smoking, and fishtailed down the highway off-ramp into the gray morning mist.
Silence settled over the highway, broken only by the hiss of a punctured radiator and the distant wail of police sirens drawing closer by the second.
