[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 867:
She swung her arms upward. The heavy steel cuffs, driven by the van’s momentum and the marshal’s forward fall, connected solidly with the soft cartilage of his throat.
The marshal’s eyes bulged. His hands flew to his neck and he went down, fighting for air.
The driver turned, hand dropping to his holster.
Too slow.
Alycia scrambled over the gasping marshal and dove through the open grate into the front cabin, landing on top of the driver. As he raised his arm to push her off, she drove her teeth into the thick muscle of his right wrist and bit down with the full force of her jaw.
The driver screamed. His hand spasmed off the wheel.
𝗥𝘦𝖺𝗱 𝗈𝘯 аn𝘺 𝖽𝖾𝗏iс𝘦 𝘰𝗻 g𝘢𝘭ոo𝗏еls.𝗰оm
Alycia threw her weight over the steering column, grabbed the bottom of the wheel with her chained hands, and wrenched it hard to the right. At the same moment, her foot found the gas pedal and stamped it to the floor.
The van’s engine surged with a deafening roar. The massive vehicle jumped the curb, demolished a metal trash can in an explosion of debris, and barreled onto the crowded sidewalk.
Pedestrians screamed and scattered.
June heard the crash and turned.
Her stomach dropped. Her lungs locked.
The massive black grille of the transport van was less than twenty feet away, bearing down on her at speed. Through the cracked windshield she could see Alycia’s face — eyes wide open, teeth bared in a bloody, hysterical smile, gaze fixed entirely on June.
“June!” Easton’s voice tore through the noise. He lunged forward, hand outstretched toward her coat.
The bumper filled her entire field of vision. Her muscles wouldn’t respond.
Then, from the cross street, came the screaming redline of a massive engine.
Time dilated, stretching the moment into agonizing slow motion.
The massive black grille of the transport van was five feet away. June felt the violent rush of displaced air against her face. Through the glass, Alycia’s bloodshot eyes blazed with manic triumph.
Easton’s fingertips brushed the fabric of June’s white trench coat, desperate to pull her back. The physics were absolute. She was going to be crushed.
Then a deafening engine roar shattered the air.
From the intersecting avenue, a massive black Cadillac Escalade tore through the red light without braking, without swerving — moving like a guided missile. Behind the wheel, Marcus, June’s bodyguard and former Special Forces operator, had his jaw locked and his boot pinned to the floor. His eyes were fixed entirely on the side panel of the transport van. He was driving at over sixty miles per hour. It was a calculated, suicidal intercept.
The impact sounded like a bomb detonating on Fifth Avenue.
The steel nose of the Escalade T-boned the front driver-side wheel well of the transport van with catastrophic force. The kinetic transfer was massive — the heavy Ford was shoved violently left, its tires screaming against the asphalt, leaving thick black streaks of melted rubber as sparks sprayed from the scraping undercarriage.
The rear end of the van whipped past June, missing her by less than ten inches. The gust of wind it generated knocked her off balance.