Chapter 40
The armored Chevrolet Suburban tore down Interstate 25 through a thickening Colorado snowstorm. Outside, the jagged peaks of the Rockies loomed like dark sentinels beneath an oppressive, leaden sky.
Shelby sat in the front passenger seat, her fingers tapping furiously against the chassis of her laptop. "It makes terrifying sense now, Carter. Charles Millard co-founded the Kingsley Group under a Bahamian proxy in 1988. My father, Thomas Abbott, was his lead financial architect. When my father died in that supposed private plane crash in 1994... it wasn't an accident. It was the exact same month Charles staged his death. Charles was wiping his executive board clean."
Carter stared through the tinted windshield, his knuckles white against his knees. "Which means your entire recruitment into corporate espionage wasn't an accident. He tracked you. He steered your agency toward Millard Enterprises three years ago to act as the catalyst."
"He engineered our meeting," Shelby whispered, her voice tightening with a mixture of grief and fury. "He knew that if I found the paper trail, your morality would force a confrontation with Ray. We were his private demolition crew."
"Eyes front!" Vance bellowed, his combat instincts flaring as his foot slammed the accelerator to the floor. "We've got hostiles at six o'clock!"
Carter turned sharply. Two matte-black Ford F-150s, outfitted with reinforced steel push-bumpers and blacked-out ballistic glass, surged out of the blizzard at ninety miles an hour, closing the gap in seconds.
"Hold on!" Vance shouted, yanking the steering wheel hard right as the lead truck rammed their left rear quarter-panel.
The heavy Suburban fishtailed violently across the black ice, metal screeching against metal as the safety systems fought for traction. The sunroof of the second pickup slid back, and a mercenary clad in white alpine camouflage emerged, hefting an RPG-7 launcher onto his shoulder.
"Down!" Carter lunged across the console, pulling Shelby flat against the floorboards.
WHOOSH—CRACK.
The high-explosive rocket streaked past their right fender, detonating against the rocky granite embankment fifty yards ahead and showering the highway with pulverized stone and burning shrapnel.
Vance didn't flinch. Executing a combat J-turn with terrifying mechanical precision, he spun the heavy SUV 180 degrees into the oncoming lane. Lowering his armored window two inches, Vance rested the barrel of his suppressed M4A1 on the sill, firing three controlled, armor-piercing bursts into the lead truck's windshield.
The high-caliber rounds punched through the glass, dropping the driver instantly. The out-of-control truck careened into the median, flipping end-over-end four times before erupting into a towering column of orange fire that severed the highway behind them.
The second truck slammed on its brakes, four contractors in full tactical gear spilling out with MP5 submachine guns, opening up a blistering wall of automatic fire.
"Shelby, cover the blind spot!" Carter kicked his door open, using the armored frame as a shield. He drew his tactical sidearm, firing twice with clinical accuracy, dropping an advancing rifleman into the slush.
Shelby rolled out from the passenger side, her weapon barking in rhythm with Vance's carbine. Within thirty seconds, the ambush was dismantled. The snow was painted red.
Only the mercenary team leader survived, writhing on the asphalt, clutching a shattered femur.
Vance marched forward, planting his combat boot squarely onto the man's wound, pressing his smoking barrel between the contractor's eyes. "Who gave the authorization? Kingsley or the European syndicate?"
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The contractor spat blood onto the snow, a sickening grin curling his lips. He nodded toward the tactical radio pinned to his vest.
A low, patrician voice echoed from the small speaker, cultured and icy: "Exquisite field discipline, Carter. You inherited your grandfather’s tactical instincts. But your flight to Zurich will be a one-way passage."
