Chapter 74: Road hunt

Steven’s POV

I keep driving without turning my head, without slowing down, without doing anything that makes it obvious that I have noticed the black sedan behind me.

It has been shadowing me for a while now, keeping a respectful distance, never too close, never too far. If I did not know better, I would think it was a coincidence or just regular traffic flow. But I do know better. My gut has been screaming at me since I left the restaurant.

I tap my fingers lightly on the steering wheel just to keep my nerves from locking up. I try to focus on the road signs, on the lights, on pedestrians crossing for lunch runs. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of things that keep me from taking a turn that might get me boxed into an alley or an empty road where someone like that could make me disappear without witnesses.

“Think,” I mutter under my breath. “Think.”

I am good with hand-to-hand combat. I am decent with weapons. But I am not trained for car chases. And there is a huge difference between fighting someone face-to-face and being hunted inside a moving vehicle.

The sedan follows me again through another light.

I take a random left turn. The sedan turns left. I take another right. The sedan turns right. My heart beats faster.

Should I call someone? Who? Ives maybe. He would know what to do.

Before I can finish that thought, my phone buzzes against the car console. I jerk a little. I look down and see Ives calling.

I grab it and press it to my ear. “Ives.”

His voice is casual. “Thought you said to call later, but I need something cleared. I—”

“Ives,” I cut in sharply. “Someone is following me.”

Silence. Then, “What? Where are you?”

“I do not know exactly. I am just driving. I am trying to stay in busy areas. What should I do? Should I call the cops? Should I—”

The sound slams into me before I finish—an explosive crash from behind. My entire body whips forward into the steering wheel as metal crunches against metal. My phone flies out of my hand.

“Dammit,” I gasp, grabbing the wheel.

Horns blare around me. People yell. The sedan that hit me revs again.

“No no no,” I say through clenched teeth, slamming my foot down on the gas.

My car bolts forward. The sedan behind me accelerates and follows. This time the distance closes fast.

Cars scatter around me. Someone shouts something I cannot hear clearly over all the noise. I grip the wheel with both hands and try not to crash into anyone else. My shoulder hurts from the whiplash, but adrenaline keeps me moving.

The sedan rams me again. The force jolts the car sideways. I jerk the wheel to straighten it out.

“Get off me,” I growl, even though I know he cannot hear me.

I turn into a busier avenue, hoping that losing myself in thick traffic would make him give up. But the driver does not give up. He maneuvers through cars like he has done this a hundred times before.

A loud bang rings out. My rear windshield cracks inward. I flinch.

He is shooting. He is actually shooting at me in traffic.

I duck my head a little, still keeping my eyes on the road, swerving left and right as small pops sound behind me. A bullet hits my rear tire. The car jerks hard. I lose control for a second, spinning half sideways.

People scream from sidewalks. More horns fill the air.

“Hold it,” I whisper urgently to myself, fighting the wheel.

I manage to regain some control, but the car is wobbling with the damaged tire. I make a sharp turn to the right to get off the main road, only because I cannot keep going straight without crashing into bystanders.

The turn leads to a smaller service road—not empty, but less busy. I grit my teeth as the car vibrates harder with every second. I do not want to be here, but I do not have a choice.

I see a wall ahead. I try to brake, but the ruined tire makes the car skid and slide uncontrollably.

I brace myself as the car crashes into the wall with a loud crunch. Pain shoots through my chest and shoulders. My head bangs against the seat rest. For a second, the world blurs.

I blink rapidly. “Move. Move,” I tell myself as I try to push the door open.

It is jammed. My breathing is ragged. I immediately twist and shove myself into the backseat. I push that door open instead and stumble out.

The sedan stops beside my car. The driver steps out with purpose, gun in hand.

There is no hesitation in him as he glares at me with that cold eyes of his.

“Hey,” I shout, my voice hoarse. “Stop.”

He does not stop.

He tries to aim the gun at me, but I slam the back door open wider, knocking him off balance. The gun hand jerks upward. He grunts and stumbles.

I rushed him. He swings a fist at me and it connects with my jaw. The impact rattles my teeth. I jab forward, catching his wrist. He tries to fire again but I twist his arm to the side.

“Drop it,” I snapped.

He headbutts me instead. My vision goes white for a moment. I stagger back. The gun is pointed at the ground now, and I react without thinking. I throw myself at him, grabbing his arm again.

We slam into the dented car. People start gathering on the sidewalk, shocked and confused. No one gets too close but I hear voices.

“Call someone.”

“He has a gun.”

“What is happening?”

The driver tries to overpower me, slamming his elbow into my ribs. Pain shoots through my side. I yank his arm down again with both hands, twisting his wrist as hard as I can.

He curses loudly and loses grip of the weapon. The gun falls. I spot it and immediately dive for it. I grab it first and hold it close to my chest as I stumble back on my feet.

The attacker stares at me, breathing heavily.

“Stay back,” I warn, trying to sound steadier than I feel.

He does not listen. He lunges forward again, tackling me straight onto the pavement. The gun flies from my fingers and skids across the concrete.

We crash into each other, elbows and fists everywhere. He lands a punch on my cheek and another against my ribs. I groan and grab him by the collar, rolling us sideways.

We both scramble up at the same time, but he reaches me faster and delivers a harsh punch to my forehead. I fell to one knee.

“Get off me,” I manage to say, raising my arm weakly.

He tries to pull me down again, but I fight back, holding his jacket and pushing against him. I manage to throw him off for a second and grab the gun again. My fingers wrap around it properly this time.

Breathing hard, I stand and point it at him.

He reacts immediately, rushing forward to grab it. I blame myself for not shooting at him when I had the chance.

We fight for the weapon again, twisting and pulling. I keep my finger off the trigger because I do not want to shoot someone innocent, but I refuse to let go.

He slams his fist into my head. I feel the sting of skin splitting. Blood trickles down the side of my face. The pain distracts me long enough for him to pry three of my fingers off the weapon.

My grip loosens. I feel the gun being pulled away—

Then something cracks loudly behind us.

The assailant drops hard to the ground.

I blink, dazed and confused. A man with a backpack stands behind him, holding a metal pipe. He looks terrified.

He says, “I am sorry. I just… I saw he was winning and… I did not think. I just reacted.”

My chest rises and falls rapidly. I stare at him for a second.

“Thank you,” I say honestly.

He nods awkwardly and backs away. The crowd that has formed looks stunned. Someone finally yells:

“Call 911.”

“Already calling.”

“Is he dead?”

“He is breathing.”

I drop onto the ground, exhausted and injured. My whole body feels like it is burning.

I look at the unconscious man. Then I look at his car. Something tells me to move before the cops show up. I force myself on my knees, then on my feet, and stagger toward the sedan’s open door.

There is a phone on the passenger seat. Just sitting there.

I snatch it quickly and slip it into my pocket just as sirens start echoing from a distance.

The police arrive with the ambulance a minute later. Officers spread out and separate the crowd while paramedics check on the attacker first, then come to me next.

One officer asks, “Sir, you need to sit down. You are bleeding.”

I wave him off slightly. “I am fine. Just ask your questions.”

They do.

“What happened?”

“Do you know this man?”

“Did he say anything?”

“Do you know why he would target you?”

I answer honestly. “No. I do not know who he is. He did not say anything. I have no idea why he would follow me.”

Another officer approaches and I grab his wrist lightly.

“One more thing. Do not tell Kayla Brooks or anyone connected to her that this happened. Please. I do not want her stressed or worried.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “That is unusual, sir. Aren’t you supposed to tell the people close to you?”

“I know,” I replied quietly. “But I mean it.”

He studies me, then nods. “We will keep this off radar for now.”

They load the attacker into an ambulance. I sit inside the police car while they check my ID and run statements. Officers keep coming back with more questions but I stick to the same simple answers.

While they are distracted with reports and crowd control, I take out the phone I stole.

I clicked it awake and began checking every part of the phone.

There is no wallpaper. No photos. No messages. Just a single call log.

One number.

No name attached. No saved contact.

Just one number.

My pulse quickens. Whoever sent him probably called from that number. Whoever ordered this might pick up again.

But I would not call yet. I need Ives. He can voice check it, maybe get something useful. I wait until the officers finish processing everything and let me go.

I stepped away, looking at the sedan one last time as officers inspected it. They are not paying attention to me anymore. They have the attacker. They have statements.

I put the phone back in my pocket and turned to leave.

Just as I take three steps away, the phone buzzes.

Not my phone. The assailant’s phone.

I freezed immediately when I saw it was the same unknown number calling.

If I do not answer now, it might raise suspicions and they might never call again.

My hand shakes slightly as I bring it up to my ear and accept.

A feminine voice comes out. “Is it done?”