Chapter 240
Wesley
Laughter. Cold and cruel.
I pressed myself tighter against the boulder, barely breathing. Four of them. Maybe five. All armed, wearing the red bandanas and worn leather cuts that marked them as Crimson Syndicate. Thomas's new allies.
Of course they were. Who else would have known about this van? Who else would have guessed that I'd run straight for it the moment things went south?
"You really think Thomas is gonna come through on his end?" one of them asked. "I mean, the guy's been playing dead for months. Hard to trust a corpse."
"He's not dead, you idiot. And Thomas Lawson doesn't make deals he can't deliver on—not when he ran half of Europe's underworld. The Obsidian Brotherhood's been eating into our territory ever since they took down the Italians. Without Thomas backing us, we don't stand a chance. If we don't clip them now, they're gonna swallow us whole."
"Speaking of which—you really think we got their boss? Marcello?"
"Got him an hour ago. Had our guys waiting at that shithole bar he likes. Took him down before he even knew what hit him."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Marcello. They'd taken Marcello.
My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The Brotherhood—my Brotherhood—was under attack. And I'd been so focused on Felix and Thomas and this goddamn family drama that I hadn't even seen it coming. Hadn't protected the one thing that mattered more than any Lawson legacy.
"So we grab Wesley, kill him like Thomas wants, and what? We just trust that the old man's gonna make everything right?"
"Thomas Lawson didn't build an empire in Europe by making empty promises. With Marcello and Wesley both gone, the Brotherhood falls apart. And once that happens, we move in. Take back what's ours. Hell, take more than what's ours. With the Godfather's endorsement, every crew in New York will respect our claim."
A pause. Then footsteps—moving away from my position, back toward the shed.
"Yeah, but what if—"
"Shut up and help me check the van. He's probably miles from here by now."
The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. They were leaving. Moving away. I had a window—small, but real. If I could just wait them out, slip away once they'd cleared the area—
Then I heard it.
The scrape of a boot. Close. Too close.
"Over there! Behind the rocks!"
My body moved before my brain caught up. I bolted from behind the boulder, abandoning any pretense of stealth, and sprinted toward the road. Behind me, shouts erupted—angry, triumphant.
"It's him! It's fucking Wesley!"
Then the gunshots started.
The first bullet whizzed past my head so close I felt the air displacement. The second hit the ground at my feet, kicking up dirt and gravel. They weren't trying to wound me. They were trying to kill me.
I ran harder, lungs burning, legs pumping with the kind of desperate speed that only comes when death is breathing down your neck. The road was just ahead—fifty yards, forty, thirty. If I could make it to the main highway, if I could flag down a car or lose them in the traffic—
Another shot. This one clipped a tree branch above my head, sending splinters raining down.
I hit the asphalt at a dead sprint, the sudden solid surface beneath my feet almost jarring after the uneven forest floor. The highway stretched out before me, empty in both directions except for the distant glow of headlights. Civilization. Safety.
For exactly three seconds, I let myself believe I might actually make it.
Then an engine roared to life behind me.
I glanced back and saw it—a black SUV tearing out from behind the shed, headlights blazing, closing the distance with terrifying speed. No more gunshots. They didn't need them now. They were going to run me down like an animal.
My mind raced through options, discarding each one as quickly as it formed. I couldn't outrun a vehicle. Couldn't hide on an open road. Couldn't fight five armed men even if I'd had a weapon.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I veered hard to the left, crossing into the oncoming lane, betting everything on the hope that they wouldn't follow. That the driver would have enough self-preservation to stay in his own lane, to let me go rather than risk a head-on collision.
The SUV swerved after me without hesitation.
Jesus Christ. They were actually doing it. Chasing me into oncoming traffic like my life—like their lives—meant nothing at all.
I pushed harder, faster, every muscle screaming in protest. The headlights I'd seen earlier were closer now, growing brighter with each passing second. A truck. A big one, judging by the height of those beams.
Behind me, the SUV's engine growled louder. They were gaining. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
I could see the driver through the windshield now—the Syndicate boss I'd recognized earlier, leaning forward with a savage grin splitting his face. He was enjoying this. Enjoying the hunt, the chase, the moment before the kill.
Then I saw the truck.
It materialized out of the darkness like some ancient beast, a massive eighteen-wheeler barreling down the highway at seventy miles an hour, its high beams turning night into blinding daylight. The driver was honking—long, desperate blasts of the horn that cut through the night like a scream.
The SUV wasn't stopping. Wasn't turning.
Neither was I.
I had maybe three seconds to make a decision. Three seconds to choose between certain death behind me and probable death ahead.
The truck's headlights filled my vision. The SUV's engine roared in my ears. The horn blared one final, furious warning.