Chapter 13 - The Ambush on the East River
Julian's body was a heavy, protective wall of muscle pressing me into the plush carpeting. Another high-caliber round slammed into the roof of the Mercedes-Maybach with the sound of a sledgehammer hitting sheet metal.
"Status!" Julian barked into his lapel communicator, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, shielding my head and neck.
"Two blacked-out SUVs on our six, Mr. Sterling!" Marcus's voice crackled through the intercom from the driver's partition. "They've compromised the bridge exit! Run-flat tires engaged, but they're trying to pit-maneuver us into the river barrier!"
Through the starred glass of the window, I caught a glimpse of a matte-black Escalade roaring alongside us, its reinforced steel bumper slamming into our rear quarter panel with bone-jarring force. The impact threw me against the seat base, but Julian absorbed the brunt of the shock, his jaw clenching as his shoulder hit the door frame.
"Julian!" I cried out, grabbing his lapels. "You're hit?"
"I'm fine," he grunted, his eyes dark with predatory adrenaline. He reached into the hidden compartment beneath the rear armrest and pulled out a sleek, matte-black SIG Sauer P320. He chambered a round with practiced, effortless lethality. "Stay behind me, Grace. Don't lift your head no matter what happens."
"They're Eleanor's men," I said, my voice trembling with shock and fury. "She's trying to eliminate us before we can reach the private airfield!"
"She won't get the chance," Julian said. He tapped the intercom. "Marcus! Hard brake at the lower bypass tunnel. Clear the convoy behind us!"
"Brace!" Marcus shouted.
The Maybach's anti-lock brakes engaged with a violent, roaring screech. The world lurched. The black SUV trying to box us in overshot our front bumper by three feet.
Julian kicked his door open just three inches—utilizing the heavy ballistic plating as a shield—raised his weapon, and fired three double-taps with terrifying precision.
The front tires of the lead pursuit vehicle exploded. The Escalade swerved violently out of control, its rims grinding against the concrete barrier at eighty miles per hour before flipping onto its roof in a shower of blinding sparks and crumpled steel.
The second pursuit vehicle swerved to avoid the wreckage, skidding across three lanes of traffic and colliding with a concrete support pillar.
"Clear!" Marcus shouted, gunning the engine. The Maybach surged forward, leaving the burning wrecks behind in the darkness.
Julian pulled the door shut, locking the heavy deadbolts into place. He lowered the weapon and pulled me up onto the leather bench. His hands moved quickly over my shoulders, my arms, checking for injuries, his breathing ragged.
"Are you hurt? Grace, look at me. Are you bleeding?"
"I'm okay," I gasped, though my body was trembling violently. "Julian, you took a blow to the shoulder. Let me see."
"It's just a bruise," he insisted, but when I reached out, my fingers touched the dark fabric of his tailored suit jacket. He winced slightly, his eyes fluttering before he locked his gaze onto mine.
In the dim amber cabin light, our faces were barely inches apart. The scent of gunpowder, rain, and his intoxicating cedar cologne filled the space between us. My hands rested on his chest, feeling the frantic, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Why are you doing this for me?" I asked, a tear slipping down my cheek. "You could have stayed out of this. You're risking your life, your company, your reputation... for my war."
Julian looked at me, his gaze so intense it seemed to burn straight into my soul. Slowly, tenderly, his uninjured hand reached up, his long fingers cupping the side of my face, his thumb gently wiping away the stray tear.
"Because seven years ago, Grace, before you ever laid eyes on Victor Whitmore, I saw you at the Lincoln Center," Julian whispered, his voice thick with raw, suppressed devotion. "You were standing in the rain, giving your umbrella to an elderly violinist who had dropped his sheet music. You were radiant, brilliant, and completely untainted by the filth of this city's elite. I spent years regretting that I didn't walk across that courtyard and introduce myself before Whitmore sank his claws into your life."
My breath hitched. "Julian..."
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"I'm not protecting a client, Grace," Julian murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed against my forehead, right beside the stitches left by Olivia's vase. "I am protecting the only woman I have ever loved. And I will burn Manhattan to the ground before I let anyone harm you again."
***