Chapter 24
Wesley
I had maybe three seconds to make a decision. Three seconds to choose between certain death and probable death.
The truck's headlights filled my vision, turning night into searing white daylight that burned through my retinas. The SUV's engine roared in my ears, a mechanical growl that promised violence. Behind me, tires shrieked against asphalt. Ahead, eighteen wheels of unstoppable momentum barreled toward me at seventy miles an hour.
Three seconds.
Two.
My body made the choice before my brain caught up.
I dove.
Not forward. Not backward. Down.
I hit the pavement hard, every bone in my body screaming in protest as I flattened myself against the road surface, arms splayed wide, face pressed into asphalt that still held the day's heat. The texture of the highway bit into my cheek—rough, unforgiving, real. This was it. This was how Wesley Lawson died. Not in a boardroom. Not in a penthouse. Face-down on a New Jersey highway, waiting for fifty tons of steel to turn him into a memory.
The truck's horn blared one final, furious warning.
Then the world went dark.
Not the darkness of death—the darkness of shadow. The massive vehicle passed over me, its undercarriage a bare foot above my spine, the rush of displaced air pressing me harder against the road. The sound was deafening, a mechanical thunder that vibrated through my chest and made my teeth rattle. Heat from the engine washed over me in waves. Exhaust fumes choked my lungs.
But I wasn't dead.
I waited for the pain. Waited for the crushing weight, the snap of bones, the wet crunch that would signal the end. Waited for my short, pathetic life to flash before my eyes—the disappointments, the failures, the moments I'd spent being someone else's punchline.
Nothing came.
Seconds ticked by. One. Two. Three. The shadow above me began to recede, the roar of the engine growing more distant. The truck hadn't hit me. Hadn't even touched me.
Holy shit. I was still alive.
Then came the screech.
Brakes. Tires. Metal grinding against metal. I couldn't tell if it was the SUV or the truck—didn't have time to care. Adrenaline flooded my system with renewed urgency, overriding the pain, the exhaustion, the logical part of my brain that insisted I should just lie here and wait for death.
I scrambled to my feet, legs shaking, vision swimming. My suit—what was left of it—hung in tatters. My hands were scraped raw, bleeding onto the pavement. I tasted copper and exhaust fumes.
And I ran.
Didn't look back. Couldn't afford to. Behind me, an engine revved—someone had recovered, someone was coming. The Crimson Syndicate wasn't done with me yet. My lungs burned. My legs felt like they were made of lead. Every step was agony, every breath a struggle.
I was going to collapse. Any second now, my body would give out, and they'd be on me. Game over.
That's when I heard it.
The smooth purr of a luxury engine, distinct from the aggressive growl of the pursuit vehicles. Headlights swept across the highway, coming from the opposite direction. A blue sedan—sleek, expensive, completely out of place on this stretch of industrial wasteland.
It slowed.
No. It accelerated toward me.
My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. More Syndicate? Corsetti reinforcements? Some random civilian about to get caught in a shitstorm they didn't deserve?
The passenger door flew open as the car pulled alongside me, still moving at a steady clip.
A hand shot out—strong, sure, impossibly fast. Fingers locked around my wrist with surprising strength, and before I could process what was happening, I was being hauled bodily into the vehicle. My feet left the ground. My shoulder slammed into the doorframe. Then I was inside, the door slamming shut behind me, the car already accelerating away.
I didn't get a good look at who'd grabbed me. Couldn't focus on anything except the sudden absence of immediate death. The leather seat beneath me was soft, expensive. The interior smelled like vanilla and something floral. Classical music played softly from the speakers—Chopin, maybe? My brain couldn't quite process the disconnect between the violence I'd just escaped and this bubble of refined civility.
"Well, well." A woman's voice, slightly slurred, tinged with amusement. "Wesley Lawson. I have to say, this is not how I expected my evening to end."