Chapter 503
Chapter 502:
He threw the tablet. It hit the opposite wall, screen shattering, and fell to the floor in pieces. The pilot flinched but said nothing.
Gaston pressed his hands flat against his thighs, driving his fingers into the muscle until the pain grounded him. His breathing was ragged, audible even over the rotor noise.
“Sir.” Carter’s voice crackled through the backup radio. “Initial reports from Philadelphia PD. Multi-vehicle incident on I-95. Tanker truck involved. Fire and rescue on scene p>
Gaston’s throat closed. “Casualties p>
“Unknown at this time. Traffic cameras in the area are down. We’re attempting to access satellite p>
“Her car.” The words tore out of him. “The Mercedes. The armored Mercedes. Tell me someone has eyes on the Mercedes p>
A pause. Static. Then: “Not yet, sir. We’re working p>
Gaston ripped off the headset. He couldn’t listen to another word of Carter’s measured professionalism. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the cabin window. Below, the lights of New Jersey streamed past, a river of gold and white that meant nothing. He could see it now on the horizon — the orange pulse of emergency lights, the darker column of smoke rising against the night sky.
Philadelphia.
He had sent her there. He had let her go alone. He had respected her need to handle her own problems, to be the capable, independent woman she had fought so hard to become, and now she was—
No.
𝗥e𝗮𝘥 𝘰𝗻 𝗮n𝘺 𝘥𝘦vі𝗰𝗲 𝘰n
He wouldn’t finish the thought.
The helicopter dropped toward the highway with reckless speed, ignoring FAA minimums, ignoring commercial flight paths, ignoring every constraint that had ever applied to him. The pilot’s voice came through the cabin speaker. “Sir, we have visual on the incident site. It’s extensive. Multiple vehicles. Fire crews are still working p>
“Land p>
“Sir, there’s no cleared p>
“Land the helicopter, or I will fly it myself p>
The pilot didn’t argue. The helicopter banked hard, dropping toward the asphalt with a violence that lurched Gaston’s stomach. He was already at the door, hand on the release, before the skids touched down.
He was out before the rotors had slowed, running toward the chaos.
The smell reached him first — acrid, chemical, deeply wrong. Then the heat, a wall of it pushing against his face even from fifty yards away. The tanker was a twisted skeleton of blackened metal, still guttering with flames that painted the night in shades of orange. Emergency vehicles surrounded it, lights strobing, radios crackling with coded distress.
Gaston scanned the scene with desperate efficiency. Police. Fire. Ambulances.
No armored Mercedes.
Then he saw it.
Fifty yards past the main wreckage, canted at an angle against the median barrier. Its black paint was covered in soot and debris, the windows spiderwebbed — but intact. The armoring had held. The armoring had held.
He was running before he had consciously decided to move. A police officer stepped into his path, hand raised, shouting something about the scene being closed. Gaston didn’t slow. He shoved past the man with enough force to send him stumbling, and kept going.
The rear door of the Mercedes opened.
Jocelyn stepped out.