Chapter 13 - Concrete and Steel
Clara slammed her foot onto the accelerator. The heavy sedan’s rear tires shrieked, laying down two thick ribbons of smoking black rubber across the concrete before the car shot forward like a catapult.
The white utility van wasn't heading for Maya’s house—it had been waiting here all along to ensure no one left the courthouse alive. The driver realized too late that the judicial sedan wasn't slowing down. Through the dirty windshield of the van, Clara saw the panicked eyes of Jack Kallum as he frantically shifted into reverse.
""Too late,"" Clara whispered through gritted teeth.
CRASH!
The reinforced steel push-bumper of Clara’s sedan struck the front quarter-panel of the white van at forty miles per hour. Metal screamed, glass exploded outward, and the impact sent Clara's head whipping forward, her seatbelt locking with bruising force across her collarbone. The air smelled instantly of spilled coolant, hot iron, and ruptured batteries.
The white van spun sideways, pinned against the reinforced concrete wall of the exit ramp.
Steam hissed from the crumpled radiators. Clara unbuckled herself, kicking her driver’s side door open with both feet. The door groaned against warped hinges before popping free.
She stepped out into the blinding daylight of the alley, the cold wind hitting her face. Blood was running freely down her cheek again, mixing with dust and black grease. In her right hand, the slide of the Glock was locked back, empty. She dropped the useless magazine, slapped in a fresh one from her pocket, and racked the slide with one brutal, practiced motion.
She approached the driver's side of the crushed van. Jack Kallum was dazed, hanging sideways from his seatbelt, his forehead split open against the steering wheel. On the passenger seat lay a black plastic detonator box with a digital countdown synchronized to the satellite phone.
Clara reached through the shattered driver's window, grabbed Kallum by his tactical vest, and dragged his face against the jagged window frame.
""The disarm code,"" she commanded, her voice dropping into a register that possessed no trace of humanity. ""Give it to me, or I will let the battery sparks ignite the fuel line while you're still pinned inside.""
Kallum looked into her eyes. He had seen interrogators, warlords, and cartel enforcers, but he had never seen the absolute, frozen mercilessness in the face of the woman looking at him through a torn black robe.
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""Four... zero... nine... nine,"" he stammered, blood bubbling on his lips. ""The package isn't a bomb, you crazy bitch... it's the dead-drop documents!""
Cliffhanger: Clara froze, her hand hesitating over the detonator as she realized Vincent had played a completely different game than anyone suspected.
