Page 41 of Break For Me
"Where?" I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He walks toward the bay doors, the gun in his good hand, his bandaged hand curled against his side. The morning light catches him as he passes under the shutter. His shaved head. His scarred shoulders. The broad strength of his back.
He looks like a man walking toward a fire. Which, I realize, is exactly what he’s doing.
I pick up my medical bag. The tremor in my left hand has stopped. I check—flex, close, open. Steady.
The hands work. The mechanic works.
I follow him toward the light.
Chapter Twelve
ROCCO
The black SUVrolls into the industrial lot as I’m loading the last of the medical gear into our truck.
It’s armored. The windows are tinted. It has the same low, heavy suspension I’ve learned to recognize as Russian—the reinforced chassis sitting heavy on the asphalt. It prowls from the south entrance of the strip, moving slowly. The driver is scanning the storefronts, hunting.
I have three seconds. Maybe four.
"Get in the truck. Now."
Adrian already has his medical bag. Garrett hefts Killian over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. It’s two hundred pounds of unconscious Irishman draped across a man half his size.
They move. Adrian gets the passenger door open. Garrett carefully loads Killian into the back seat. I’m behind the wheel with the engine turning over before Garrett’s door slams shut.
The Russian SUV accelerates. The driver has seen us. The tinted window on the passenger side drops two inches. A suppressed muzzle slides through the gap.
I floor the accelerator. The heavy truck bucks forward, tires screaming on the oil-slicked concrete. The first round punchesthrough the tailgate with a loud sound like a hammer hitting sheet metal. The second takes out the rear window.
Glass sprays into the cab. Adrian ducks. Garrett throws his body over Killian to shield him.
I don't take the main road. The road is a kill zone. Straight. Open. Long sight lines that favor the vehicle with the bigger engine and the better armor.
I cut left through the empty lot. I jump the curb and hit the gravel access road that runs behind the industrial strip. It’s a mess of deep, frozen potholes.
A chain-link fence looms at the far end. I blow through it at forty miles an hour. The steel posts rip free from their concrete footings and drag screeching under the truck’s undercarriage in a bright shower of sparks.
The SUV follows us. It’s faster on pavement, but I’m not on pavement anymore. I cut hard across a frozen drainage field. The truck bounces violently through the deep, frozen ruts. The suspension groans in protest.
I can see the tree line ahead—a solid wall of bare oaks and pines rising at the edge of the field. No road. No path. Just woods.
I aim for the trees.
Garrett fires through the broken rear window. The shotgun roar fills the cab—a concussive blast that makes my ears ring. The SUV’s windshield spiders with cracks. It swerves. Garrett racks the slide and fires again. The SUV falls back.
I hit the tree line at thirty-five miles per hour.
Heavy branches rake the roof and sides of the truck. The passenger-side mirror snaps off. The remaining windows crack under the impact. The ground changes instantly—soft, uneven, root-laced earth. The truck bucks sideways. I fight the wheel to keep us upright. The big tires dig in.
We push through fifty yards of thick brush. The terrain tilts sharply upward. The truck grinds up the steep hillside, engine screaming, transmission whining in protest. The acrid smell of burning clutch fluid fills the cab.
Behind us, the Russian SUV stops at the tree line. They won't follow us into the woods in an armored sedan. The ground clearance is wrong. The weight is wrong. They’ll call it in and send a foot team to track us.
I check the rearview mirror. Three figures get out of the SUV, regrouping at the tree line. One is on a radio. They're not following immediately—the terrain is unfamiliar, the dark is total, and they don't know our numbers. Professional operators don't chase blind into a dark forest. They call for reinforcements and set a secure perimeter.
That gives us distance, but not time.
