No. Not her.
I had to catch this bastard. For Julia. For myself. Whoever wanted her dead wanted me dead too.
Three teenagers on skateboards darted into my path. I slammed the brakes, screeching to a halt. My palm hit the horn.
"Move! MOVE!"
The blue sedan's tires screamed as he peeled out.
The kids scattered. I gunned it, heart hammering—
Julia's car shot out of the alley onto Green Boulevard.
She's alive.
The relief nearly made me dizzy. But a high-speed chase with a professional killer wasn't the time to celebrate. She power-slid onto the boulevard, nearly clipping a minivan, correctedthe oversteer, and weaved through traffic like she was driving a stolen car.
Highway 24. She was heading for the highway.
I pressed harder on the gas.
Whether she was merely trying to escape or luring her would-be assassin out of the city for other reasons, it was impossible to tell. I didn’t know whether she’d seen me or not, and she wasn’t answering her phone.
I flew past a traffic department sign—Don’t TEXT and DRIVE—going 115 miles per hour. So much for safety. The next warning sign was about seat belts.Buckle Up—It’s the Law.
Not an issue.
I tried calling Julia again, but the call went straight to voicemail.
The straightaway opened up ahead. The blue sedan accelerated and rammed Julia's car.
She careened off the road, tires kicking up dirt. I gunned it and slammed into her attacker's rear quarter panel.
Everything slowed down, crystal clear.
Julia's car plowed into the meadow and jerked to a stop against a log. I clipped the sedan's rear end, sending it into a sideways skid. We both slowed. I hammered the brakes while reaching for my .45 Glock. More stopping power than a 9mm, and in a gunfight, subtlety was overrated.
The assassin chose the 9mm.
Three sharp cracks. Bullets spiderwebbed my passenger window but didn't penetrate. My car's reinforced glass would hold—for now. A skilled shooter could shatter it with five or six well-placed rounds at close range.
He wouldn't get the chance.
I threw open my door and crouched behind it, using it as cover. Julia's car sat directly in my line of fire—one stray bullet and I'd kill the woman I was trying to save.
No room for error.
I steadied my grip, lined up the shot through the sedan's driver-side door. Unless the car was armored—unlikely—I had a chance of punching through. I angled myself to minimize exposure while keeping my aim true.
Three quick rounds. Center mass where the driver should be.
The shots echoed across the meadow.
We traded several more volleys.
The 9mm gave him capacity—nearly double my rounds. But my .45 had stopping power. It could punch through an unarmored car door and still deliver a killing blow.
He figured that out fast.
