Chapter 8
The engine of the opposing vehicle revved loudly, echoing off the concrete walls of the underground garage. A sleek black sedan edged forward slowly, its high beams glaring blindingly into Marcus’s eyes, forcing him to raise a hand to shield his face.
Marcus stood frozen beside his sports car, his hand hovering over the door handle. He recognized the tinted windows and the specific model—it belonged to his father’s security detail. They hadn't just sent men to his apartment; they had anticipated his movements and cut him off downstairs.
The passenger door of the black sedan swung open, and a burly man in a sharp black suit stepped out, holding a thick manila folder in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.
"Nice try, Marcus," the man called out, his voice bouncing off the concrete. "Your father told you to stay out of this. Put the keys on the hood of your car and get inside the back seat. We're going for a ride."
Marcus kept his hand in his jacket pocket, his fingers curling tightly around the USB drive. He looked back toward the elevator doors he had just emerged from, but they were already closed, locked in a descent back to the upper floors. There was no backup coming, and the police were hours away.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Marcus said, his voice ringing out clearly across the garage. "Tell my father that if he wants the files, he can come down here and ask me himself."
The guard chuckled darkly, taking two deliberate steps forward on the concrete floor.
"You think you're clever, playing the rebel son," the guard mocked. "You don't understand the scale of what you're messing with. That girl used you as a pawn, and your father is simply cleaning up the mess. Hand over the drive, Marcus, or things are going to get very uncomfortable for you."
Marcus didn't answer. Instead, with a sudden, explosive motion, he dropped his shoulder, punched the unlock button on his car key fob, and dived headfirst into the driver's seat of his sports car.
Before the guard could reach the vehicle, Marcus slammed the door shut, hit the ignition button, and the engine roared to life with a deafening exhaust note.
The guard slammed his fist against the driver’s side window, shouting angrily, but Marcus dropped the transmission into reverse, flooring the accelerator. The sports car shot backward out of the parking stall, tires squealing against the concrete, spinning in a tight arc that narrowly missed the front bumper of the blocking sedan.
Marcus shifted into drive, cranked the steering wheel hard to the right, and rocketed toward the automated exit gate of the garage.
As he sped toward the rising security arm, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the black sedan spinning around to give chase, its tires leaving burning black marks on the floor.
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He didn't hesitate. He smashed right through the lightweight plastic exit gate, sending white fragments flying into the night air, and burst out onto the empty downtown street into the cool night wind.
***
