Chapter 10 - The Highway Ambush
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The drive to the Bellweather Grand was tense. The rain had returned, slicking the dark pavement of Lower Wacker Drive—a subterranean stretch of road beneath the city that always felt like a concrete tomb.
I sat in the passenger seat of Daniel’s armored black SUV, wearing a simple black cocktail dress. I was annoyed that my father had summoned me to another public dinner, but I was even more annoyed by the suffocating proximity of my bodyguard.
“You don't have to monitor my breathing, Daniel,” I snapped, noticing his eyes darting constantly between the rearview mirror and the side streets.
“I’m not monitoring your breathing, Elena,” Daniel replied, his voice tight. “I’m monitoring the two black sedans that have been pacing us since we left your apartment.”
My heart skipped a beat. I turned to look over my shoulder. Through the rain-streaked rear window, I saw the blinding glare of high-beam headlights following far too closely.
“Are they my father’s men?” I asked, panic beginning to flutter in my chest.
“Your father’s men don't drive with stolen plates,” Daniel said grimly.
Suddenly, a massive, rusted tow truck pulled out from a side maintenance tunnel directly in front of us, blocking both lanes of the narrow underground road.
“Hold on!” Daniel roared.
He slammed on the brakes, the heavy SUV skidding violently on the wet pavement. We stopped just inches from the side of the truck.
Before I could process what was happening, the two black sedans slammed to a halt behind us, effectively boxing us in. We were trapped in a concrete canyon.
Men wearing tactical gear and ski masks poured out of the sedans. They didn't shout. They didn't demand we step out of the vehicle. They raised automatic rifles and opened fire.
The deafening roar of gunfire echoed brutally in the tunnel. Bullets struck the SUV, spider-webbing the bulletproof glass and raining sparks off the reinforced steel doors. I screamed, covering my head as the sheer volume of violence overwhelmed my senses.
“Get down in the footwell! Now!” Daniel commanded, shoving my head forcefully below the dashboard.
He didn't panic. He moved with terrifying, mechanical precision. He drew a heavy, suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster, rolled his window down two inches, and fired three rapid shots. I heard a scream outside as one of the attackers dropped.
“The glass won't hold against armor-piercing rounds,” Daniel shouted over the gunfire. He threw the SUV into reverse, slamming his foot on the gas.
The heavy SUV crashed violently into the sedan behind us, crumpling its hood and pushing it backward with a sickening crunch of metal. Daniel expertly cranked the steering wheel, using the momentum to force the sedan sideways, creating a narrow gap between the concrete wall and the wreckage.
“Stay down, Elena!” he yelled.
He slammed the SUV into drive and punched the accelerator. We scraped brutally against the concrete wall, showering sparks as Daniel forced the heavy vehicle through the narrow gap. The attackers continued to fire, blowing out our rear tire, but Daniel kept the pedal to the floor, fishtailing wildly out of the tunnel and bursting into the rainy Chicago night above ground.
I was sobbing, clutching my knees in the footwell, my ears ringing violently.
Daniel didn't stop driving. He navigated the slick streets with lethal focus, checking his mirrors to ensure we had lost them.
“Are you hit?” Daniel demanded, his voice rough with adrenaline.
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“No,” I gasped, trembling uncontrollably. “Daniel, who were they?”
“Russians,” Daniel spat, his eyes dark with fury. “They weren't trying to kill you, Elena. They were trying to take you. We are not going to the dinner.”
