Chapter 79 - The Ambush at the Crossing
Vincent didn't waste a fraction of a second checking the mirror. He stomped the gas pedal, the rear tires screaming against the loose gravel as the station wagon fishtailed back onto the tarmac.
A second later, high-beam headlights flared to life behind us. Two heavy, armor-plated black SUVs surged over the crest of the hill, their engines roaring like predatory beasts.
"Down!" Vincent barked toward the back. "Maya, get on the floor and cover your ears!"
The little girl gasped, rolling off the seat and wedging herself into the footwell beneath the heavy blanket, her hands clamped over her head just as she had been drilled to do during our years on the run.
A spray of automatic gunfire tore through the rear windshield, shattering the tempered glass into a thousand glittering diamonds that showered across the interior. Vincent swerved wildly, throwing the vehicle side-to-side across the narrow two-lane road to disrupt their firing line.
"Can you reach the glove compartment?" Vincent shouted over the roar of the wind whipping through the blown-out rear window.
I leaned forward, popping the latch. Inside lay a black tactical case containing two loaded magazines and a compact submachine gun with a folding stock.
"Take the wheel!" Vincent ordered.
"What?!"
"Take the damn wheel, Clara!"
I lunged across the center console, grabbing the top of the steering wheel with both hands as Vincent twisted his torso, bracing his uninjured shoulder against the door frame. He kicked the driver's side door open against the rushing wind, hanging half his body out into the freezing night.
With his right hand, he leveled the submachine gun over the roof of the car. The weapon spat a controlled burst of muzzle flashes into the darkness.
The lead SUV's front left tire exploded. The heavy vehicle jerked violently to the side, flipping sideways at eighty miles per hour. It barrel-rolled three times across the asphalt in a catastrophic shower of sparks, metal, and smoke, completely blocking the narrow road and forcing the second SUV to swerve hard into the ditch to avoid the wreckage.
Vincent pulled himself back inside, slamming the driver's door shut. He slumped against the seat, coughing violently, a dark trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. The recoil had completely reopened the puncture wound in his shoulder.
"Vincent!" I screamed, wrestling the wheel to keep us on the road as the car veered toward a stone bridge spanning a swollen river.
"I have it... I have it," he gasped, his hand weakly reclaiming the steering wheel. He pulled the gear shift down, nursing the sputtering engine as we crossed the old stone bridge and plunged into the dense, foggy canopy of the Tuscan woodlands.
The second SUV had managed to crawl out of the ditch, its single functioning headlight piercing through the thick mist behind us like a cyclops eye, slowly closing the distance. We were losing coolant; white steam was beginning to hiss from the edges of our hood.
"The car won't make it to Florence," I said, panic rising in my chest as the temperature gauge pegged into the red.
"It doesn't need to," Vincent wheezed, his eyes glazed with fever. "Take the next dirt path on the right. Behind the ruined chapel."
I grabbed the wheel again, assisting his trembling arms as we wrenched the car off the main road and down an overgrown gravel path hidden by weeping willows. The station wagon groaned, scraped over a bed of submerged river rocks, and finally shuddered to a dead halt inside the crumbling nave of an abandoned Romanesque church, completely cloaked by ivy and darkness.
Vincent cut the lights and the ignition. The hiss of steam filled the silence.
In the back, Maya let out a soft, terrified sob. I climbed into the rear seat immediately, pulling her into my arms and burying my face in her hair. "You're safe, sweetie. Mommy’s got you. You did so good."
"Vincent is bleeding," Maya whispered, her eyes wide with terror as she pointed a small finger toward the front seat.
Vincent sat motionless, his head resting against the steering wheel. His right hand still held the empty firearm, but his fingers were limp.
"Vincent!" I scrambled over the console, pressing my fingers to his neck. His pulse was thready, erratic, and dangerously fast. His skin was burning with fever. The puncture wound in his shoulder wasn't just a combat tear—it was turning black around the edges.
A poisoned blade. Valerie's signature.
May you like
I reached into his coat, pulling out the small brass key he had shown me earlier. Attached to the key ring was a tiny silver medallion with an address in Florence: *Via dei Serragli, No. 14.*
Suddenly, the unmistakable hum of an engine slowed on the road outside the ruined chapel. A spotlight cut through the ruined stone arches, scanning the dense foliage.
