Chapter 10 - The Road to Marion and the Trap in the Cornfields
The armored Maybach devoured the asphalt of Interstate 55 heading south toward Marion, cutting through the endless, flat expanses of dead cornfields under a bruised, leaden sky that threatened sleet.
Mason sat in the front passenger seat holding a tactical tablet, while Gabriel and I sat in the spacious rear cabin, surrounded by secure communication gear and encrypted monitors.
“You were right, Boss,” Mason called back over his shoulder without turning around. “Visitor logs for Marion Federal show that three days before the Lower Wacker ambush, a high-ranking proxy attorney representing Viktor Vance’s shell corporation visited Julian Cross in maximum security.”
“They were coordinating the double-cross,” I said, crossing my arms tightly over my chest as I stared out the bulletproof window at the passing landscape. “Julian wanted revenge because I refused to sign off on his fraudulent asset transfers back in New York, and Viktor wanted an inside track to destabilize the Kane syndicate.”
Gabriel reached across the leather console, his large, warm hand covering my cold fingers resting on the seat, grounding me with quiet, undeniable strength.
“They made a very expensive miscalculation,” Gabriel said smoothly. “Inmates in federal prison are fragile things, Claire. One phone call from me to the warden, and your stepbrother will spend the next twenty years digging his own meals out of a tin cup in solitary confinement.”
“I don't want him in solitary,” I said, turning my head to look Gabriel directly in the eyes. “I want to look him in the eye and watch him realize that his little games aren't going to work anymore.”
Gabriel’s lips curved into a thin, approving smirk.
“Then that is exactly what you will do.”
Suddenly, the Maybach’s forward-facing collision sensors emitted a piercing, high-pitched shriek.
“Boss! Incoming!” Mason roared, his hand instantly dropping to the assault rifle secured beneath his dashboard.
Out of a concealed agricultural access road hidden behind a rusted grain silo, two heavy matte-black SUVs roared onto the interstate, crossing the median and violently boxing our vehicle in at eighty miles per hour.
Before Mason could even draw his weapon, automatic gunfire erupted from the lead truck, shattering the highway guardrails and raining heavy-caliber rounds against our reinforced bulletproof glass in a deafening cacophony of steel and lead.
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“They’re not trying to stop us,” I yelled over the din, bracing my hands against the front console as the Maybach swerved sharply to avoid a semi-truck. “They’re trying to force us off the exit ramp toward the old state prison annex!”
Gabriel didn't panic; his face remained ice-cold, his eyes locked on the tactical map flashing on the console screen.
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