Running

"Five minutes. Pack up in exactly five minutes!"

Vega gritted her teeth, her hand grabbing the black tactical backpack placed ready at the foot of the desk. Survival instincts deeply rooted in her blood prevented her from allowing herself even a single second of panic.

Juno frantically yanked out the hard drive plug, her hands and feet fumbling as she stuffed the two encrypted laptops along with backup disks into shockproof sleeves. "I told you... I told you not to touch that cargo! He knows who we are now, Vega! He knows!"

"Shut up and focus!" Vega grabbed Juno by the shoulders, squeezing hard enough to snap her best friend back to her senses. Vega's cat-like eyes flared with a cold, resolute determination. "Emergency Rule Number One: No panic. We've rehearsed this scenario five hundred times. The backup car is in basement level B2. Move now!"

The two of them rushed out of the apartment via the emergency stairwell to escape. The sound of heavy boots stamping rapidly against the concrete steps echoed with dry thuds.

Basement level B2 was pitch black, reeking faintly of oil and dampness. The backup car was not a proud, flashy Dodge Charger, but a gray 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429 retrofitted with armored steel bodywork, cloaked in a non-reflective matte paint layer. This was Vega's tightly guarded trump card for doomsday.

Vroom!

The V8 engine roared with a heart-wrenching shriek, billowing thick exhaust smoke. The Mustang darted out of the garage entrance, crashing through the plastic barricade and plunging straight into Chicago's pelting night rain.

"To Gary Private Airport," Vega commanded while spinning the steering wheel hard, her eyes darting continuously across the three rearview mirrors. "Tell the pilot to start the engines immediately. We're leaving everything behind."

Juno hugged the backpack tightly to her chest, her trembling fingers opening the computer to connect to the underground satellite network: "I'm... I'm opening a route..."

Suddenly, Juno froze. Her radar screen displayed six green dots moving at a terrifying speed, forming a closed pincer maneuver from five surrounding streets.

"Vega! They're not behind us!" Juno screamed. "They're already in front!"

Screeeech!

Right at the intersection of Wabash Avenue, three ash-gray armored Cadillac Escalade SUVs suddenly burst out from three different alleys, blocking the entire intersection. High-power LED headlights blazed brightly, shining straight into the Mustang's windshield, turning pitch night into broad daylight in the blink of an eye.

No police sirens. No loudspeaker warnings to surrender.

A disciplined, ruthless, and absolutely destructive silence.

"Fasten your seatbelt!" Vega roared.

She didn't brake at all. Her gloved hand violently yanked the handbrake, her left foot stomped the clutch to the floor, and her right foot slammed the gas pedal down. The Mustang executed a terrifying sideways drift, its tires screeching on the wet pavement, swinging its tail to smash heavily into the front of the left SUV.

CRASH!

The horrific metal impact sent electric sparks flying everywhere. The shock was so violent that the airbags in the opposing SUV deployed, creating a gap of less than one and a half meters.

Vega downshifted, flooring the gas completely. The Mustang bounded forward like a wounded beast, squeezing through the lethal narrow gap, tearing through the side plating of the Escalade, and surging ahead.

"Damn it! They're not human!" Juno looked back, drained of all color.

Behind them, the two remaining Escalades handled the situation with astonishing speed. They didn't falter for even a single second, immediately revving their engines to pursue, maintaining a precise chasing distance like programmed machines.

From the sunroof of the lead SUV, a man in black tactical gear without insignia hoisted himself up. In his hand was neither a handgun nor a shotgun, but a high-powered compressed-air cable launcher.

THWACK!

A titanium alloy cable embedded firmly into the rear of the Mustang, connecting straight to the SUV.

"They hooked the cable!" Juno screamed as she felt the car suddenly drag, its velocity plummeting from 120 km/h to 80 km/h within three seconds.

"Hold on tight!"

Vega narrowed her eyes, her face icy. She didn't try to press the gas to drag the SUV along; instead, she unexpectedly... slammed on the brakes hard.

The tables turned in a split second. The SUV struggling to pull the Mustang backward suddenly lost resistance, hurtling forward at a terrifying speed. The exact moment the SUV's front pulled level with the Mustang's body, Vega yanked the handbrake, sharply steered right, and grazed her car's tail hard against the pursuer's front wheel.

The indirect sweep caused the SUV to lose stability at high speed, flipping three times across the asphalt, scraping long, glowing trails of fire before slamming into a roadside building's concrete wall. The cable snapped with a loud pop.

The entire maneuver took exactly four seconds. It was the flawless combination of physics, spatial awareness, and the ultimate ruthlessness of a legendary driver.

But before Vega could even catch her breath, the third Escalade—the heaviest armored vehicle—silently lunged from the blind spot. It didn't try to hook a cable or cut her off. It simply used tons of reinforced steel mass to ram straight into the Mustang's rear quarter panel.

WHAM!

The Mustang spun completely out of control, rotating three times on the slick road before smashing into a row of iron guardrails, plunging straight into a narrow, pitch-dark dead-end alley blocked by a towering brick wall.

The Mustang's engine coughed out a stream of black smoke and died. All electrical systems in the car flickered out.

The space plunged into a deadly silence. Only the sound of rain hammering the old corrugated roof and Juno's heavy panting remained.

Suppressing the pain in her shoulder, Vega immediately drew her Sig Sauer P320 pistol, flipped the safety off, and positioned her body to shield Juno. Her cat-like eyes suppressed an explosion, the sole remaining spark being an unconquerable will to survive.

Headlights blazed as the Escalade slowly advanced into the mouth of the dead-end alley, sealing off the only escape route.

The rear door of the Escalade flew open.

A man stepped out. He wasn't wearing tactical gear like his subordinates; instead, he wore a flawlessly tailored ash-gray trench coat. He was tall, with chiseled features carved from stone, carrying a black umbrella, leisurely stepping through the puddles without a single speck of dirt splashing onto his trouser legs.

It was Silas—the iron-fisted enforcer operating under Roman Ashcombe.

Silas stopped five meters away from Vega's wrecked car. He didn't draw his gun, his hands remaining casually tucked into his trench coat pockets. Ten armored gunmen emerged from the shadows, the red laser dots from their submachine guns locked firmly onto Vega's and Juno's chests through the shattered windshield.

Silas raised his head, his gray, cold eyes devoid of any trace of emotion staring straight at Vega through the cabin.

He curved his lips slightly, speaking in a deep, composed voice that pierced through the sound of the rain:

"Very impressive driving skills, Miss Vega. But the chase ends here."

Silas paused for a beat, raising a hand to adjust his silver-cuff-linked shirt sleeve:

"My boss simply wants to have a conversation."