Chapter 7 - Pursuit on Route 58
The wind whipped through the shattered passenger window of the catering van as Bram Vance fought the steering wheel, his face twisted in a mask of furious concentration. In the rearview mirror, I caught a brief, terrifying glimpse of my sister, her hands pressed against the dashboard, screaming something I couldn't hear over the deafening roar of the engine.
She wasn't driving.
She was trapped.
"He's heading for the old dry docks at Berth 9," Agent Vance shouted, leaning forward as he squinted through our cracked windshield at the rapidly receding white van. "There's an abandoned rail spur there that connects directly to the subterranean freight tunnels under the shipyard. If he gets inside those tunnels, federal jurisdiction gets complicated, and local police won't be able to follow without specialized tactical gear."
"Not on my watch," I muttered, pushing the accelerator past its normal threshold, feeling the sedan’s engine whine as we closed the gap to within three car lengths.
Ahead of us, the highway curved sharply around a towering stack of green shipping containers, opening up into the industrial expanse of Berth 9. The air here was heavy with the smell of creosote, rusting iron, and stagnant river water. Bram’s van drifted violently across two lanes, its rear bumper scraping against a concrete guardrail in a shower of orange sparks before veering off the asphalt and tearing across the gravel lot toward the rusted steel gates of the dry docks.
I didn't hesitate. I swerved my sedan directly into the path of the van, angling our front bumper to intercept his trajectory before he could smash through the rusted chain-link gates.
Clang.
The impact sent a violent shockwave through the cabin of my car, rattling my teeth and throwing us hard against our seatbelts. The sedan’s passenger side crumpled like paper, but the heavy steel chassis held, forcing Bram to slam on his brakes to avoid flipping his top-heavy vehicle into a drainage ditch.
The white van skidded sideways in a cloud of white smoke and crushed gravel, coming to a dead stop mere inches from a massive concrete piling.
I kicked my door open before the smoke even cleared, unholstering my sidearm with my right hand and keeping my eyes locked on the cab of the van.
"Federal agents! Cut the engine and step out of the vehicle with your hands where I can see them!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the hiss of the radiator.
Inside the cab, the driver’s side door shoved open with a groan. Bram Vance stepped out, adjusting his expensive Italian suit jacket as if he had just stepped out of a boardroom meeting instead of a high-speed police chase. A cool, mocking smile played at the corners of his mouth.
May you like
"Commander Vance," Bram drawled, raising his hands slowly, though his eyes darted rapidly toward the dark, yawning maw of the subterranean freight tunnel fifty feet away. "Always a pleasure to run into family."
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