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Chapter 119
Chapter 119:
The driver floored the accelerator.
The Camry tore down a pitch-black alleyway flanked by towering, rusted shipping containers. No streetlights. No exit.
The car slammed to a halt at the end of the dead-end alley.
The driver ripped off his seatbelt and turned his massive body around in the seat. His rough hands reached toward the back, aiming straight for June.
She pressed her back against the door, every muscle coiling.
Then the mouth of the alley exploded in blinding white light.
Two massive LED headlights split the darkness like physical blades, and the deafening roar of a V12 engine shook the ground beneath the car.
The silver Aston Martin tore into the alley like a rabid animal.
𝘚𝗁𝖺𝗿𝖾 𝘆о𝘶𝗿 𝘁h𝗼𝘂𝘨𝗁t𝘀 𝘰𝗻
The driver of the Camry threw both hands over his face, blinded by the high beams.
CRASH.
The heavy front grille of the Aston Martin drove directly into the side of the Camry. The sound of crumpling metal and shattering glass was deafening. The sheer kinetic force of the impact shoved the Camry two feet sideways.
June was thrown hard against the opposite seat. Her head spun — but she understood immediately. This was her way out.
The Aston Martin’s door swung open.
Declan stepped into the alley wearing a bespoke suit, his face a mask of pure, homicidal fury. He walked to the driver’s side of the crushed Camry, seized the bent door frame, and wrenched it open with terrifying force.
He reached inside, grabbed the driver by the collar, and dragged him out onto the pavement like a piece of discarded weight.
The driver hit the asphalt hard, scrambled upright, and yanked a serrated folding knife from his waistband. He slashed wildly at the air between them.
Declan did not flinch. His eyes were completely dead.
He stepped inside the arc of the blade and threw a single, brutal, perfectly placed right hook into the center of the driver’s face.
The crack of breaking bone echoed off the shipping containers.
The driver screamed and crumpled onto the asphalt, blood pouring from his shattered nose.
Declan glanced down. The blade had opened a deep, ugly gash across the back of his right hand. Thick, dark blood dripped steadily onto his white shirt cuff.
He did not blink.
He walked around to the rear door of the Camry. The impact had warped the frame and sprung the child lock. He pulled the door open.
June was pale, her chest rising and falling rapidly — but she was unharmed.
Declan extended his bleeding right hand toward her.
“You’re safe,” he said. His voice was low and rough, and it filled the silence of the dark alley completely.
It was one in the morning.
The fluorescent lights inside the Brooklyn NYPD precinct buzzed overhead. Two detectives were escorting the bleeding, handcuffed driver down the hall toward an interrogation room.
