Chapter 111: Trouble

The rain did not just fall; it slammed against the concrete bridge like thousands of tiny needles, blinding every driver stuck on the highway.

For two seconds after the crash, the world was silent, except for the heavy pour of water and the loud, high-pitched hiss of steam rising from the ruined engine.

Then, red brake lights flickered through the grey mist. Car doors slammed. Voices began to rise over the sound of the storm, shrill and panicked.

"Did you see that?!" a man yelled, running forward through the downpour, his coat soaked through in seconds. "Call an ambulance! Call 911!"

The rusted car-transporter truck sat idling fifty yards down the road, its front bumper twisted and dripping grease.

Inside the high cabin, the door clicked open.

The driver stumbled out onto the slick pavement, his boots splashing in the deep puddles.

He looked back at the upside-down car once, his face white, his mouth trembling, then turned and ran into the curtain of heavy rain, disappearing down the off-ramp toward the lower streets.

"Hey! Stop! Where’s he going?!" someone shouted, but nobody chased him. The storm was too thick, and the wreck on the bridge was too awful to ignore.

Behind the upside-down sedan, two sleek black SUVs skidded to a halt. The doors flew open, and four men in dark suits scrambled out, their shoes sliding on the wet road.

"Get to the car! Move!" the lead security guard barked, wiping water from his eyes.

They reached the crumpled car. The metal was crushed like an empty tin can, the glass shattered into thousands of tiny pebbles across the road.

Inside, upside down and tangled in his seatbelt, Niko lay motionless against the crushed steering wheel, blood running down his face from a deep cut above his eyebrow.

"Chernov!" the guard yelled, pounding his palm against the bent window frame. He reached through the shattered glass, pressing two fingers against Niko’s neck. "He’s got a pulse! He’s breathing, but he’s out cold!"

"What about Miss Kingston?" the second guard shouted, pulling out a heavy flashlight and shining the bright beam into the dark backseat.

The yellow light cut through the smoke. Isabella hung upside down, suspended by the black strap of her seatbelt.

Her head rested at an awkward angle against the crushed roof. Rain poured through the broken side window, soaking her dark hair and plastering it to her white skin.

"Miss Kingston!" The guard reached in, his thick hand shaking as he touched her cold wrist. He felt nothing. No movement. No pulse beneath his thumb. "Shit. Shit! She’s not breathing!"

"Get the door open!"

"It’s jammed! The frame is completely bent!"

"Get a crowbar from the truck! Call the paramedics again and tell them we need an extrication team right now!"

A few commuters had gathered near the concrete barrier, holding up their phones despite the pouring rain.

"Isn’t that... wait," a woman whispered, shielding her eyes with a wet hand. "Is that the woman from the news? The one getting the divorce from the Carter guy?"

"Oh God," another person muttered, pointing a phone camera through the broken glass. "Look at her dress. She’s pregnant, right?"

"Put the damn phone away!" one of the guards roared, turning around with a look so violent the crowd backed off into the mist.

Within minutes, the distant wail of sirens cut through the heavy thrum of the storm. Two bright red fire trucks and three ambulances squeezed through the gridlocked traffic on the bridge, their blue and red lights flashing off the wet asphalt.

Paramedics scrambled out with heavy iron tools. They pried the rear door off its hinges with a sickening metallic screech.

"Careful with her neck!" the lead paramedic shouted over the noise of the rain and the roaring engines. "Female, mid-twenties, severe blunt-force trauma! She’s unresponsive!"

They cut the seatbelt and slid Isabella onto a hard plastic backboard. Her face was deathly pale, covered in dirt and glass dust, with a thin line of dark red blood trickling from her temple down into her mouth.

The front of her dress was soaked, not just with rainwater, but with a dark, spreading stain between her legs.

"We’ve got bleeding!" the paramedic called out, pressing a heavy pad against her lower abdomen while another worker slipped an oxygen mask over her face.

"Blood pressure is eighty over forty and dropping! Get her into the rig now!"

They lifted the stretcher, wheels clicking as they slammed it into the back of the first ambulance. One of Aaron’s security guards tried to climb in after them.

"You can’t be back here!" the paramedic yelled, grabbing the guard’s jacket.

"I’m her personal security!" the guard snapped back, his voice tight. "She belongs to Aaron Kazarov. You do not leave me behind!"

The paramedic gritted his teeth and shoved the guard onto the folding bench as the heavy rear doors slammed shut.

The ambulance lurched forward, its sirens screaming as it tore down the wet highway toward the central trauma center.

Inside the bouncing vehicle, the heart monitor let out a flat, continuous, terrifying beep.

"She’s going into arrest!" the female medic shouted, ripping open a box of pads. "Start chest compressions! Charge to two hundred!"

The guard grabbed his radio, his hands trembling violently as the ambulance rocked from side to side. He dialed Aaron’s direct line.

The subscriber you are trying to reach is out of coverage or unavailable.

"Dammit!" he swore, wiping sweat and rain from his forehead. He tried Niko’s phone. Nothing. The storm was knocking down cell towers all across the river district. He pulled up his contacts and tried the secondary line for Kazarov’s main office.

..

Downtown, at the glass tower of Lotus Automobiles, the storm rattled the high windows of the executive suite.

Aaron sat at the head of a long mahogany conference table.

Around him, five nervous vice presidents were talking over each other, holding thick folders full of customs regulations and shipping logs.

"The harbor authority says they received an anonymous tip at six this morning," a man in a grey suit stammered, tapping his tablet.

"They’re claiming our engine crates match the serial numbers of stolen military components. It’s a completely fake report, Mr. Kazarov, but the inspectors locked the dock gates. If we miss the afternoon tide, the delivery contract for the European launch drops by twelve percent."

Aaron sat straight in his chair and picked up a gold pen, signed the bottom of three clearing forms, and tossed them across the polished wood.

"Call the regional director of customs," Aaron said, his voice deep, smooth, and steady.

"Tell him I am granting his team full access to open every box on dock four. If they find anything other than car parts, I will hand them the keys to the company. If they find nothing, he will personally sign the release form before noon, or I will file a tort suit against his office by three o’clock."

The executives blinked, nodding quickly as they scrambled to gather their papers.

"Is that clear?" Aaron asked.

"Yes, Mr. Kazarov. Right away."

They hurried out of the room, leaving the double doors open.

Aaron reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the screen. Ten fifteen. The court hearing had been scheduled to start at ten.

Niko had not sent a text in over forty minutes.