Chapter 4 - THE CHASE THROUGH SECTOR 4
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Elena tripped on her hem, kicking off her Christian Louboutin heels and running barefoot across the oil-stained concrete. "Where do we go?! The gates are down!"
"The fire stairs! Come on!" Julian dragged her toward the heavy steel service door marked Exit to 8th Avenue.
Behind them, the two SUVs braked hard, doors flying open. Four men in dark tactical windbreakers jumped out, their faces obscured by caps and tactical masks. They didn't draw weapons, but their intent was terrifyingly clear: containment.
"Julian Vance! Elena Ross! Stop where you are!" a deep voice bellowed across the garage.
Julian slammed his shoulder against the fire door’s panic bar. The door burst open into a damp, dimly lit stairwell. They scrambled up the metal steps two at a time, Elena sobbing between ragged gasps of air.
"This is insane! Call the police! Julian, call 911!"
"And tell them what?!" Julian shouted back, his heart pounding in his throat. "That the wife I tried to murder woke up and canceled my credit cards?! Shut up and keep moving!"
They reached the street-level landing. Julian kicked the emergency exit open, triggering a high-pitched alarm that echoed into the rainy Manhattan night. They spilled onto the sidewalk near 8th Avenue, rain instantly drenching Julian’s tailored suit and plastering Elena’s hair to her face.
Pedestrians turned to stare at the disheveled couple—a man in a soaked thousand-dollar suit and a woman in a mud-splattered evening gown, bleeding from her bare feet.
Across the avenue, an idling black town car flashed its hazard lights. The rear window rolled down slowly.
Inside, framed against the soft interior leather, sat Victoria Vance.
She was wearing a black trench coat over dark slacks, her hair pulled back into an immaculate, severe ponytail. In her hand was a paper coffee cup from the hospital lobby. She raised it toward them in a mocking, silent toast.
Julian stopped dead on the curb. "No... no, she was in bed. She was hooked up to monitors..."
The rear door of the town car swung open. A tall, silver-haired man stepped out holding an oversized black umbrella.
It was Marcus Kane. New York’s most terrifying corporate litigator—and Victoria’s godfather.
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"Julian," Marcus said, his gravelly voice carrying cleanly over the sound of traffic. "You've been served."
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