Chapter 4 - The Cold Run to Route 133
The tactical flashlight beam danced across the ancient brick arches of the wine vault like a searchlight over a prison yard.
I slipped behind a floor-to-ceiling rack of 1982 Bordeaux, pulling my limbs tight against the dusty wood.
Julian was walking down the center aisle, the heavy steel stun baton resting lightly against his right thigh.
In his left hand, he held his tactical flashlight, sweeping the beam methodically into every alcove, every storage bay.
"You know, Claire, I really did love you in the beginning," Julian mused, his voice echoing off the vaulted masonry.
"You were so refreshingly simple."
"No family trust demands, no neurotic society mothers criticizing the seating arrangements at the country club."
"You just sat there with your spreadsheets, looking at me like I was a god who had descended from Mount Olympus to bless your little life."
He kicked an empty wooden crate aside; it shattered against the brick with a splintering crash.
"It’s really a shame your father didn't teach you when to look away from other people's ledgers."
"He had the exact same flaw, you know."
My heart slammed against my ribs like a battering ram, but I forced my breathing into absolute, silent rhythm.
He was talking to draw a sound from me, to provoke a gasp, a sob, a movement.
I reached into my pocket and touched the heavy brass bottle opener I had palmed from the communication alcove.
Julian was five feet away from my rack, the edge of his cashmere coat sweeping past the dust on the floor.
With a precise, underhand flick of my wrist, I tossed the brass opener across the vaulted ceiling toward the far eastern corner of the cellar.
The metal piece clattered against an iron water pipe and struck the concrete floor with a sharp, ringing bounce.
Julian spun instantly, his body snapping toward the sound like a coiled spring.
"Got you," he hissed under his breath.
He lunged forward into the eastern corridor, his flashlight beam pinning the shadows against the far wall.
In that exact second, I broke from my cover.
I didn't run away from him; I ran behind him, darting through the low service archway that led directly into the subterranean garage bay.
I hit the garage door lock switch on the interior wall, throwing the heavy steel deadbolt into place behind me.
Julian heard the click and screamed in fury, throwing his entire weight against the reinforced oak door.
"Claire! Open this door!" he roared, slamming the butt of the stun baton against the wood.
I didn't waste a single second answering.
The subterranean garage smelled of premium motor oil, high-octane gasoline, and polished carbon fiber.
Sitting in the central stall was Julian’s personal Audi RS6 Avant—a twin-turbocharged monster with six hundred horsepower and all-wheel drive.
Sitting beside it was my dark blue Lexus RX, its wheel wells coated in road grime, its brake lines quietly waiting to kill me.
Julian had left his Audi keys sitting on the central tool chest, right beside the wireless diagnostic scanner he had used to override the house security.
I scooped up the heavy key fob, hit the ignition button through the open driver's window, and the four-liter V8 engine roared to life with a deep, predatory rumble that shook the garage foundation.
I threw my briefcase into the passenger seat, jumped behind the wheel, and hit the wall-mounted commercial overhead door release.
The steel roll-up door began its slow, mechanical ascent, grinding upward inch by inch.
Behind me, the cellar door gave way with a splintering crack as Julian used a heavy iron pry bar from the wine racks to snap the deadbolt.
He stumbled into the garage, his expensive coat covered in dust, his face twisted into a mask of psychotic rage.
He saw me behind the wheel of his prized car, saw the headlights blazing directly into his retinas.
"Get out of the car, Claire!" he screamed, raising the iron pry bar like an executioner’s axe.
I didn't flinch.
I dropped the transmission into reverse, spun the wheel with one hand, and backed the Audi out of the bay before the roll-up door had even cleared the roof racks.
The rubber tires squealed violently against the smooth concrete, leaving twin black scars on the garage floor.
Julian lunged forward, throwing the iron bar with all his strength.
The heavy metal missile struck the Audi's reinforced windshield, spiderwebbing the safety glass directly in front of my face, but failing to penetrate the laminate barrier.
I slammed the shifter into drive, floored the throttle, and shot up the steep concrete ramp into the lashing rain of the motor court.
The rain hit the cracked windshield like a tidal wave, but the high-performance wipers swept it clear with rhythmic precision.
I blew through the wrought-iron estate gates, turning hard onto the slick cobblestones of Mount Vernon Street.
In my rearview mirror, the headlights of another vehicle flared violently to life at the end of the avenue.
A black, heavy-duty Range Rover pulled out from the curb with its high beams blazing, accelerating aggressively into my wake.
It was Victoria Hayes.
She had been waiting at the perimeter just as Arthur had commanded, watching the estate exits like a vulture circling a dying animal.
I looked at the dashboard navigation display.
Agent Vance had ordered me to head north toward Route 1A, but looking at Victoria’s aggressive positioning, she was deliberately herding me.
She wasn't trying to ram me yet; she was running parallel, boxing me out of the turnpike exits, forcing me onto Route 133 toward the coastal cliffs of Essex County.
They still wanted the original plan.
They still wanted my corpse at the bottom of the river.
A cold, terrifying smile touched my lips as my hands tightened around the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
They had spent eight weeks planning my execution on the sharp curves of Route 133.
They believed I was a terrified suburban wife weeping behind the wheel, desperate for a way out.
They didn't know that when you grow up in South Boston without a father, you learn how to handle heavy steel on black ice before you learn how to balance a corporate ledger.
I tapped the Audi's drive-mode selector, toggling the chassis from Comfort into Dynamic Track mode.
May you like
The suspension lowered, the exhaust valves opened with a throaty snarl, and the twin turbos spooled up with an ear-piercing whine.
If they wanted their execution on the cliffs of Route 133, I was going to give them the show of their lives.
