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Chapter 633
Chapter 633:
He waited until Cole had dragged himself upright and stumbled back toward the stairs. Then he followed June.
She took the service elevator. He took the stairs, three at a time, his long legs covering the distance. He reached B2 as the elevator doors slid open.
June stepped out.
Vera was waiting beside the Aston Martin. She held out the keys — June must have given them to her before entering the ballroom — and stepped back quickly, her heels clicking against the concrete.
“Three minutes,” Vera said. “Easton’s team has the cameras. But that’s all the window you’ll get p>
June nodded, took the keys, opened the driver’s door of the DB5, and slid inside.
The engine roared to life.
Crawford stepped out of the stairwell.
He saw June in the driver’s seat, her hands on the wooden steering wheel, her eyes fixed on something beyond the structural column in the corner. He saw the way she held herself — relaxed and ready, the posture of someone about to execute a maneuver they had rehearsed a hundred times.
He understood.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he made his decision. He touched the microphone concealed in his tie clip — a device his security team had insisted he wear, that he had never expected to use.
𝖳𝗿𝗲𝗇𝖽𝗶𝘯 oո.со𝗺
“Alpha team,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. “B2 level. Seal all access points to B1. Clear the level. Now p>
He stepped back into shadow.
June did not see him. She was focused on the column, on the black car parked behind it, on the culmination of months of planning and pain and patient, cold calculation.
She put the car in gear.
The Aston Martin leaped forward like a living thing.
Seventy miles per hour in a parking garage is a death wish.
June’s hands were steady on the wheel. Her foot was heavy on the accelerator. The DB5’s engine screamed, the sound ricocheting off concrete walls and ceiling, multiplying until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
She saw the column. She saw the black car behind it — the Maybach, rocking slightly on its suspension.
She did not brake.
At ten meters, she jerked the wheel. The Aston Martin’s nose swung right, aligning the passenger-side front quarter with the Maybach’s rear door.
Impact.
The sound was not a crash. It was a detonation — metal and glass and physics compressing time itself. June felt it through her entire body: the shock wave traveling up her arms, slamming her chest against the steering wheel, snapping her head forward against the restraint of her seatbelt.
The airbag deployed. White fabric, chemical smell, the sensation of being punched in the face by something both soft and absolute.