Chapter 8 - The Ambush on the Expressway
We descended through the private freight elevator into the subterranean parking garage beneath the high-rise tower.
The basement air was thick with the scent of damp concrete, motor oil, and exhaust fumes.
Luca swept the perimeter with his drawn weapon, clearing the shadowed rows of luxury sports cars and armored SUVs.
Parked in a secluded corner was a matte-black, reinforced Chevrolet Suburban with tinted ballistic glass.
“Get in the back,” Luca instructed, unlocking the heavy doors with a key fob.
I helped Gabriel into the leather rear bench seat, making sure his lower back remained supported by an orthopedic cushion.
He grimaced as his weight shifted, but he didn't let a single groan escape his lips.
His pride was stronger than any physical pain.
I climbed in beside him, immediately attaching a portable blood pressure cuff to his upper arm.
“One hundred and twenty-eight over eighty-two,” I announced, checking the digital readout.
“Your vascular resistance is normalizing.”
“I told you I was healing,” Gabriel said, leaning his head back against the leather headrest.
“Your body is fighting off poison, Gabriel,” I corrected him sternly.
“Don't confuse adrenaline with recovery.”
Luca started the Suburban’s heavy V8 engine, its low rumble vibrating through the reinforced floorboards.
We exited the underground garage into the biting chill of the early Chicago morning.
The city streets were nearly deserted, coated in a slick sheen of freezing rain and industrial mist.
Streetlamps cast long, sickly orange reflections across the wet asphalt as we headed southwest toward the industrial corridor.
Gabriel stared out the dark tinted window, watching the darkened towers of his territory slip past.
“Vincent was twelve when my father brought him into our home,” Gabriel murmured, his voice laden with a heavy, bitter nostalgia.
“His father had gambled away his last dollar and jumped into the Chicago River.”
“I treated him like a younger brother.”
“I gave him legitimate business fronts, luxury apartments, and a seat at the council table.”
“Power makes brothers forget whose blood they share,” I said softly, adjusting the blanket over his knees.
“In my line of work, I’ve seen families tear each other apart over five hundred dollars of life insurance money.”
“Greed is a disease that doesn't care about bloodlines.”
Gabriel turned his head, looking at me with an intense, penetrating gaze.
“You are remarkably cynical for someone dedicated to healing people,” he noted.
“Cynicism is just experience without the illusions,” I countered.
Suddenly, Luca cursed violently from the front seat.
“We’ve got company,” Luca growled, checking his side mirrors.
Two black sedans with darkened headlights had pulled onto the expressway ramps behind us, accelerating rapidly to close the distance.
“How did they find us?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
“This car is untraceable,” Luca shouted, flooring the gas pedal.
The heavy Suburban surged forward, engine roaring as the speedometer climbed past eighty miles per hour.
Gabriel reached down to his waist, feeling the medical brace Dr. Vale’s clinic had strapped to his lower back weeks ago.
His eyes widened with a terrible realization.
“Elena,” Gabriel said sharply.
“The brace.”
“Check the plastic housing along the lumbar seam.”
I reached behind Gabriel’s waist, digging my fingers into the hard molded plastic of the medical brace.
My fingertips brushed against a tiny, hard lump embedded deep within the synthetic foam padding.
A micro-GPS beacon.
Dr. Vale hadn't just injected him with poison; he had turned Gabriel into a walking radio homing target.
“Found it,” I yelled, ripping the seam open with my trauma shears and pulling out a tiny black transmitter blinking with a silent green light.
“Throw it out the window!” Luca yelled as the lead sedan slammed into our rear bumper with a deafening screech of crumpled steel.
The impact jarred the Suburban, sending us swerving across the wet three-lane expressway.
“Lower the window!” I shouted to Luca.
The heavy ballistic glass rolled down two inches.
I shoved the blinking transmitter through the gap, letting the sixty-mile-per-hour wind rip it away into the darkness.
Behind us, the second pursuit sedan swerved erratically, its headlights following the bouncing beacon into the concrete median barrier.
The car struck the barrier at ninety miles per hour, exploding into a massive fireball that lit up the rainy expressway behind us like midday.
The remaining sedan accelerated aggressively, pulling up alongside our passenger side.
The rear window rolled down, revealing a masked shooter armed with a drum-fed shotgun.
Before the shooter could level the barrel at my window, Gabriel reached across my lap, grabbed his Colt .45, and kicked the car door open an inch with his boot heel.
Through the narrow gap, Gabriel fired three controlled shots with pinpoint, terrifying accuracy.
The front tire of the pursuing sedan shredded into rubber confetti.
The vehicle spun out violently on the slick asphalt, rolling three times before crushing itself against an overhead bridge support pillar.
Gabriel slammed the door shut, sinking back into the leather seat, breathing heavily as blood blossomed through his fresh bandages once again.
He looked at me, our faces inches apart in the dimly lit cabin.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes scanning my face with fierce, protective urgency.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice barely shaking despite the adrenaline flooding my veins.
“You, on the other hand, just tore your stitches wide open again, you absolute idiot.”
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Gabriel let out a ragged, breathless laugh, resting his forehead against mine for a fleeting, electrifying second.
“You really are an extraordinary woman, Elena Vance,” he whispered.
