“It’s going to go sideways,” she says with certainty that makes nerves flood my system. “The question is whether we can control how.”
At exactly 0900 hours, we take our positions in the armored convoy.
Dr. Schuyler sits between Bianca and me in the back seat of the central vehicle, her face pale with terror above the bulletproof vest the FBI insisted she wear.
She’s maybe forty, with a heart-shaped face, short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses that keep slipping down her nose.
She’s trembling like a leaf, looking at Bianca and me with fear radiating from every pore.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bianca tells her, her voice surprisingly gentle. “We’re going to get you to the courthouse safely.”
Dr. Schuyler nods, but I can see she doesn’t believe it.
Neither do I, if I’m being honest.
The convoy consists of three black SUVs—lead vehicle with federal agents, our vehicle in the center, and a tail car with more agents and two of Matteo’s best men.
The route has been planned down to the second: seventeen minutes through downtown New York, past the old port, up through the financial district to the federal courthouse.
For the first eight minutes, everything goes according to plan.
Then the world explodes around us.
The lead vehicle disappears in a ball of flame as an IED tears through the intersection ahead of us.
Our driver—one of my most experienced men—yanks the wheel hard left, tires screaming as we fishtail around the burning wreckage, but I can already see the trap unfolding.
Dr. Schuyler shrieks.
Muzzle flashes erupt from rooftops, storefronts, parked cars.
The distinctive crack of high-powered rifles fills the air as bullets spider-web the armored glass inches from my face.
Our tail car takes a direct hit from what sounds like an RPG, spinning sideways and slamming into a concrete barrier.
“Contact left! Contact right! Contact everywhere!” I shout into my comm as I push Dr. Schuyler down below the window line. “This is a full-scale ambush!”
Through the chaos, I catch a glimpse of Bianca’s face, and what I see there chills my blood.
She’s not surprised.
She’s not even particularly concerned.
Her expression is neutral, like she’s been expecting this exact scenario.
“How many?” she asks, her voice cutting through the gunfire with unnatural calm.
“Too fucking many!” Our driver’s voice is strained as he tries to navigate through the kill zone while bullets spark off our armor. “I count at least twelve shooters, probably more!”
“Then we go through them.” Bianca’s hand moves to her weapon. “Alessandro, can you get us to the courthouse?”
“Not through this,” I grit out. “We need to break contact, find alternate routes?—”
“No.” Her interruption is sharp, final. “We stick to the mission. Dr. Schuyler testifies today, or this was all for nothing.”
The commitment in her voice is absolute, but it’s also fuckinginsane.
We’re outnumbered at least four to one, caught in a prepared kill zone with a civilian in tow.
