Chapter 3 - THE BULLETPROOF CONVOY
-3
The VIP service exit of the Hudson Children’s Foundation gala was a damp, concrete loading dock usually reserved for catering trucks and discarded floral arrangements. Tonight, it was a staging ground for a military extraction.
Two heavy, matte-black armored Suburbans sat idling against the curb, their tinted windows reflecting the flashing red and blue lights of distant sirens. Four men in tactical gear, carrying automatic submachine guns concealed beneath heavy wool coats, flanked the rear doors, their eyes scanning the dark, rain-slicked alleyways with cold, dead-eyed precision.
“Get in,” Gabriel ordered, his hand resting securely against the small of my back as he guided me toward the rear passenger door of the lead vehicle.
“Mommy, I’m scared,” Asher whimpered, his small fingers digging painfully into the fabric of my coat as the cool night air hit us. Julian and Leo were already climbing into the leather-lined interior, their eyes wide as they stared at the reinforced steel bulkheads and the glowing comms panels mounted on the doors.
“It’s okay, babies,” I lied, my voice shaking as I slid in beside them, pulling all three boys into a tight, protective huddle against my chest. “Mommy’s right here. We’re just going on a little adventure.”
Gabriel climbed in beside me, slamming the heavy armored door shut with a solid, reassuring thud that instantly muffled the sounds of the New York street. The interior of the vehicle smelled of expensive leather, ozone, and the faint, familiar scent of Gabriel’s sandalwood cologne—a scent that instantly bypassed five years of bitter resentment and triggered a flood of agonizingly tender memories.
Up front, Jonah slid into the driver’s seat, while another armed operative took the passenger side.
“Convoy is rolling,” Jonah spoke into his shoulder mic. “Heading north toward the Westchester estate. Route B. Keep the jammer active.”
The SUV lurched forward, accelerating smoothly away from the curb just as a sleek black sedan turned sharply into the mouth of the alleyway behind us, its high beams flashing blindly.
“Hold on!” Gabriel roared, throwing his body across the seat, shielding my boys with his broad shoulders as Jonah slammed the accelerator to the floor, ramming the rear of a parked catering van and launching our vehicle into the main thoroughfare.
Bang! Bang-bang!
The sharp, cracking sound of silenced gunfire echoed through the rain, chewing into the brick facade of a nearby building and pinging off the reinforced steel plating of our rear quarter panel.
“They’re on us!” the operative in the front passenger seat shouted, unholstering a short-barreled tactical rifle and flipping down a ceiling hatch. “Jonah, take the 59th Street bridge on-ramp—they’ve got spotters on the overpass!”
In the back seat, chaos erupted. Leo buried his face in my lap and started screaming, while Julian and Asher clutched each other, trembling violently.
“Gabriel! Do something!” I yelled, my maternal terror overriding every ounce of self-preservation as another volley of rounds hammered against our bulletproof glass, leaving white, spiderweb fractures across the driver’s side window.
Gabriel didn't hesitate. He reached down into a hidden compartment beneath the center console, pulling out a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol and checking the magazine with a practiced, mechanical click that sounded entirely too natural for a billionaire philanthropist.
“Jonah, open the rear hatch a fraction,” Gabriel instructed, his voice dropping into the absolute, terrifying calm of a man in his true element—the violent underworld he had tried to keep locked away from his pristine corporate life.
“Boss, are you crazy—!”
“Do it, Jonah!”
The vehicle swerved violently, tires squealing against the wet asphalt as we took a sharp ninety-degree turn onto the bridge approach. The rear hatch cracked open by six inches, letting the cold, rainy wind rush into the cabin.
Without blinking, Gabriel positioned himself half out of the seat, raised his weapon through the gap, and fired three calculated, deliberate shots backward into the blinding headlights of our pursuer.
Pop-pop-pop.
A shower of sparks erupted from the black sedan tailing us as its front tire blew out at eighty miles per hour. The vehicle careened wildly across three lanes of traffic, slamming violently into a concrete barrier before disappearing behind us in a cloud of smoke and screeching metal.
Gabriel pulled himself back inside, slamming the hatch shut and clicking the safety back onto his weapon with steady, unbothered fingers. He tossed the pistol back into the hidden compartment, turned around, and looked directly at me and the boys.
Nobody was hurt. The glass had held. The boys were crying, but they were breathing.
May you like
Gabriel’s slate-gray eyes swept over my face, lingering for a split second on my trembling lips before shifting down to the three little boys pressed against my chest.
“I told you,” Gabriel said quietly, his voice thick with a dark, terrifying promise. “Nobody touches my family. Nobody.”
