The Lower Levels
The subterranean garage was a cavern of echoes. Every drip of water from the overhead pipes sounded like a gunshot.
Andrew didn't head for his fleet of custom-armored sedans. He knew Victor's team would have remote-kill switches for every engine registered to Scott Enterprises. Instead, he moved toward the far corner, where the dusty, unglamorous vehicles of the building's overnight maintenance crew were parked.
"There," Andrew pointed to a battered, silver mid-sized SUV. It was nondescript, invisible, and perfect.
"You said steal it," Julie whispered, her eyes darting toward the elevator bank. The digital floor indicator was moving. The "containment team" was already descending.
Andrew didn't use a coat hanger or a slim-jim. He pulled a small, black handheld device from his tactical bag—a signal relay. He held it near the driver-side door. Within three seconds, the locks clicked open.
"Get in. Low in the seat."
Julie scrambled into the passenger side, pulling the dark windbreaker tight around her. The interior smelled of stale coffee and sawdust. It was a jarring contrast to the scent of expensive leather and ozone she had lived in for the past weeks.
Andrew jammed a screwdriver into the ignition housing with a brutal efficiency that surprised her. With a sharp twist, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then roared into a steady idle.
"How do you know how to do that?" she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I didn't spend my entire life in a boardroom, Julie," he replied, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
The elevator doors at the far end of the garage hissed open.
Three men in tactical gear stepped out. They didn't shout. They didn't hesitate. They fanned out, their suppressed submachine guns raised in a low-ready position.
"Hold on," Andrew said.
He didn't turn on the headlights. He shifted into reverse, floored the accelerator, and slammed the SUV backward. The tires screeched, smoking against the concrete.
The shooters opened fire. The thud-thud-thud of rounds hitting the rear tailgate was muffled, but terrifying. Glass shattered, raining down on the dashboard.
Andrew swung the wheel hard. The SUV swung in a violent arc, its tail-end clipping a concrete pillar with a bone-jarring crunch. He shifted into drive and hammered the gas.
The SUV surged forward, aiming directly for the exit ramp. One of the gunmen lunged into their path, leveling his weapon.
Andrew didn't flinch. He didn't swerve.
At the last possible microsecond, the gunman dove out of the way. The SUV hit the incline of the ramp, catching a brief moment of air before slamming back down onto the pavement of the rainy New York street.