Chapter 9 - The Race Across the Trinity
"Track the sedan!" I screamed, lunging across the broken table and grabbing Julian by the throat, hoisting his bruised body off the hardwood floor.
"Give me the GPS frequency right now, or I will burn this house down with you tied to the foundation!"
Julian choked, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as my fingers crushed his windpipe.
"Under... under the spare tire," Julian gasped out, his eyes rolling back into his head.
"The glove box... laptop syncs... to the transponder."
Frank was already on his knees, tearing open Julian’s leather briefcase on the floor.
He ripped out a corporate tablet, bypassing the biometric lock with Julian’s limp thumb before I threw my cousin back against the wall like a sack of garbage.
"Got it!" Frank shouted, his fingers flying across the touchscreen.
"Transponder frequency 9-4-Echo."
"The Charger is heading south down Riverfront Boulevard, crossing the Corinth Street Viaduct toward the Trinity River industrial floodplain."
"Antonio!" I yelled, turning toward the old man.
Uncle Antonio pulled a heavy, modified .45 caliber Colt from his waistband, his ancient eyes completely devoid of mercy.
"Take care of this snake," I ordered, gesturing toward Julian on the floor.
"Lock down the estate."
"If a single associate loyal to Julian moves an inch in this city, put them in the ground."
"With pleasure, nephew," Antonio growled, cocking the heavy hammer of his weapon with an ominous metallic snap.
"Vincent, get up," I barked at my trembling brother.
Vincent scrambled to his feet, terror plastered across his youthful face.
"Get in the second SUV with heavy armaments," I commanded him.
"You want to prove your blood isn't rotten like his? Move!"
Vincent nodded frantically and bolted out the double doors toward the garage.
Two minutes later, three black armored Escalades tore through the stone gates of the Preston Hollow estate, their sirens blaring in illegal synchronization as tires smoked against the asphalt.
The Dallas skyline glittered in the distance, bathed in the violent orange and purple hues of the dying Texas sunset.
Inside the lead vehicle, I sat in the passenger seat, my eyes fixed on the pulsing red dot on the tactical GPS screen.
"Speed it up, Frank," I muttered, the words tearing out of my chest like jagged glass.
"We’re doing ninety in a forty zone, Boss," Frank said, weaving violently through evening rush-hour traffic on I-35.
"Floor it," I snarled.
"If a police cruiser gets behind us, ram them off the road."
"Nothing stops this car."
My heart slammed against my ribs with a rhythm of pure, unadulterated madness.
Four years of her agony played behind my eyelids like a torture reel.
I pictured Madison sitting on the cold floor of a homeless shelter, clutching that torn napkin with half a cinnamon roll.
I pictured her shivering through winter nights under cardboard boxes while I slept beneath goose-down duvets in a climate-controlled mansion.
She had endured hell every single second of every single day to keep my heart beating.
And I had arrived four years too late to save her from the wolves.
"Boss, the signal stopped moving," Frank announced, pointing to the glowing monitor mounted on the dashboard.
The red beacon was stationary near the levee of the Trinity River basin, an isolated stretch of overgrown brush, abandoned gravel pits, and murky industrial drainage canals.
"They’ve reached the drop site," Frank said, pulling back the charging handle of an automatic assault rifle in his lap.
"Two miles out."
"One minute."
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"Kill the headlights," I ordered, my voice dropping into the quiet, terrifying calm that comes right before an execution.
"We take them in the dark."
