Chapter 10: The Driver's Choice
Kaelen wasn't dead. He hadn't died in the gym. He had been extracted before the gas hit. He was standing there, laughing with the man who had ordered the death of his own crew.
The rage that hit Max was blinding. It wasn't about the money anymore. It wasn't about the escape.
The timer on the bomb in the van read 1:45.
Max looked at the exit. He could run. He could survive. Russo had a car waiting three blocks away.
He looked at Kaelen.
Max dropped the champagne crate. The glass shattered. The sound echoed through the loading dock.
Kaelen looked down. His eyes locked with Max's. The color drained from Kaelen's face. He recognized the street rat.
"Security!" Kaelen screamed, pointing at Max. "Stop him!"
Max didn't run for the exit. He ran back to the van.
He jumped into the driver's seat. He locked the doors.
1:10.
Security guards were drawing weapons. Bullets pinged off the side of the van.
Max looked at the structural pillar he was parked next to. Then he looked at the ramp leading up to the mezzanine where Kaelen stood. It was a reinforced concrete ramp for forklifts.
The van had a V8 engine. It was heavy.
"I don't drive getaway cars," Max whispered to himself, revving the engine until it screamed. "I drive battering rams."
He dropped the clutch.
The van lurched forward, tires squealing on the polished concrete. He didn't aim for the exit. He aimed for the ramp.
The guards scattered. The van hit the incline and launched into the air.
Time seemed to slow. Max saw Kaelen's face, frozen in terror.
The van crashed onto the mezzanine level, skidding, sparking, crushing expensive tables. Max slammed on the brakes, drifting the van so the side door—where the explosives were stacked—faced Kaelen and the Don.
Max scrambled out of the driver's side door and vaulted over the railing, falling twenty feet to the loading dock floor below. He hit hard, rolling, agony shooting through his leg.
0:03... 0:02...
He looked up. Kaelen was staring at the van.
0:00.
The world turned white.
The explosion tore the mezzanine apart. The shockwave threw Max across the floor, slamming him into the wall. Concrete rained down. The ceiling of the loading dock collapsed, burying the lies, the money, and the traitor.
Max lay in the rubble, dust filling his lungs. Sirens wailed in the distance. He couldn't feel his left arm.
He coughed, tasting blood and concrete dust.
He dragged himself toward the service exit, inch by inch. He was broken, bleeding, and hunted.
But for the first time in his life, Max was driving his own destiny. And he had just declared war.