at the intersection and, the next, we’re face to face with a masked passenger in the car next to us.
And staring down the barrel of a long gun.
Cole hits the gas at the same time his other hand grips the back of my head, folding me at the waist. This, coupled with hoofing it blocks at a half-jog post-surgery, would probably do me in at any other moment, but glass shattering has a way of spiking one’s adrenaline.
“Fuck!” Cole growls as loud as the tires screech on the pavement below us. The safety belt is no help when the car is pulled to the left, my body thrown the opposite way into the door.
I twist and find the small window behind the driver’s seat gone. When I turn farther, I find a black sedan on our bumper. The passenger has switched weapons and now a handgun is pointed at us.
We speed through city streets, swerving this way and that. Cole takes his eyes off the rear-view mirror long enough to reach under his seat and shoves a Glock into my hands. “Get them off my tail.”
I flip off my safety belt and hike up my dress to kneel in the seat and find bullets ricocheting off the pavement in our dust. I press the button to lower the window and silently curse the fact I wasn’t born left-handed. Cole gets rid of his second cell, tossing it out my open window as I demand, “Faster, Cole.”
“Hang on.” His arm cages me to the seat as he takes the corner on what feels like two wheels. “Shit. One way and we’re going the opposite.”
I don’t dare take my eyes off my target and can only imagine what’s happening in front of us from the honking.
“You’re taking your sweet time over there, baby.”
His arm across my back tightens and he yanks the steering wheel to the left. The sedan veers to avoid a minivan and I cringe. “I’m not shooting with innocent people near.”
The engine revs and we gain some space. “Soon, Bella. I can’t get on the highway into gridlock with this guy on my ass. Hang on—turning.”
I grip the back of the seat but after he turns, we slow and the sedan closes in. “What are you doing?”
“Fucking construction,” he growls as we speed past orange barrels.
Bullets ping and chip at the Porsche while Cole weaves in and out of traffic. There’s no way to get a clean shot with my left hand.
“Shit! Hang on.”
I peek over my shoulder. Cole has run out of room to pass and plows into a sea of orange. Barrels, cones, and signs light up the dark night.
We’re never going to get rid of them like this.
“Watch out.” I lean over and press the button to his window before twisting my arse and planting it in his lap with my back to his door. His arms cage me in where his hands are gripping the steering wheel. “If you can avoid the debris, I can get a shot. I only need a moment.”
“Taking a left. Hang tight, you should be clear.”
I grab onto him and brace.
As Cole turns, I lean out the window. A hand with a gun attached to it appears from the sunroof of the sedan but I don’t hesitate. I shoot three times—the passenger, the front left tire, and straight through the driver’s head.
A lovely trifecta, if I do say so myself.
The sedan spins, the driver’s side slamming into what’s left of the construction mess, crashing into a pit a half-meter deep. Smoke billows and a flame licks the night from under the hood. I pull my arm back in the car and Cole glances at the rearview mirror with a bloody, arrogant smirk playing on the strong lines of his face. “You left a mess, baby.”
As we race away, I hear sirens in the distance. “They’re not after us any longer. You’re welcome.”
He releases the steering wheel with one hand and plants it on my ass, tucking me tight to his groin. Without taking his eyes off the road, he holds me snug to his chest. “Seems both our agencies are after us. As bad as that is, this feels like old times, sweetness.”
I bite my lip because the last thing I need is to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. We left a pile of rubble in our wake and, to top off the night, trashed Jarvis’s fancy car. Like old times is absolutely not an understatement.