Chapter 8 - The Vintage Escape
The engine roared to life with an unholy cough of black exhaust. The cruiser was old—a decommissioned 1998 interceptor Julian had purchased at a municipal surplus auction—but its V8 engine had teeth. Vance slammed the column shifter into drive and floored the accelerator before Clarissa’s security team could even draw their batons.
Tires shredded the wet grass of the suburban park, sending geysers of mud slamming into the windshield of Clarissa’s grey luxury sedan. Leo squealed in terror, his tiny body pressed into the cracked vinyl of the passenger seat.
“Hold on to your cart, kid!” Vance roared over the screaming belts of the engine.
“No cart!” Leo screamed through tears. “Cart outside! Cart outside!”
Through the cracked passenger window, a hand suddenly grabbed the sill. Maya vaulted herself through the window with the agility of an alley cat, tumbling onto the floorboards in a tangle of bruised knees and frayed denim. She kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot, panting wildly, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.
“The back gate!” Maya yelled, pointing through the cracked windshield at the park’s decorative iron fence. “They lock it at sunset! Ram it!”
Behind them, the black-vested security team was already piling into their SUV. High-powered LED floodlights mounted to the roof of their vehicle snapped on, blinding Vance in his rearview mirror.
“Vance, they have kill-switches on modern vehicles, but not on this rust bucket!” Maya shouted, leaning over the console to help steady the steering wheel. “Don’t look in the mirror! Look at the gate!”
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Leo clung to Vance’s fake wool sleeve, his wide blue eyes watching the towering iron spikes rush toward them. The cruiser struck the center of the ornamental gates at forty miles per hour. Metal screamed against metal; hinges snapped like dry twigs, and the car burst into the open streets of Oakwood Avenue just as the setting sun dipped below the industrial horizon.
On the floor of the car, Vance’s cracked phone continued to broadcast, its speaker chirping frantically with incoming alerts. But the voice coming through the speaker wasn’t a viewer. It was an automated voice: Target acquired. Drone protocol engaged.
