Page 59 of Bastard Prince
“Yeah, and then what?” I asked. “Look over our shoulders every day again? Not a chance.” Daring to take my eyes off the road for a split second, I turned my head, meeting her wide eyes. “Now sit the hell down and hold tight.”
As the vehicle behind us came up close, the lights disappeared behind the back bumper of the Audi, and in the fresh darkness I could just make out the shape and color of the pursuing vehicle.
That black fuckin’ van.
I slowed even further, letting them creep right up to us, getting closer than they had been so far. I could hear Francesca’s indrawn breath, but she remained quiet. My gaze darted from mirror to mirror and then back to the road, assessing the distance to the gate, but still, I let them get closer.
Finally, just as Francesca opened her mouth to question me again, the van connected with the back of the Audi, the light bump letting me know they were as close as they were gonna get.
Slamming my foot down, the car took off at gallop, all five hundred and fifty horses working like magic to pull us away from that fucker riding my ass.
They didn’t give up, though, and the van limped along after us, doing it’s best to keep up.
“Enzo,” Francesca called, the trepidation clear in her voice. “The gate is coming up.”
I saw it, but I didn’t have time to tell her the plan. The best I could do was try it and hope for a fuckin’ miracle. Casting my eyes back to the mirror, I could see the van was falling behind and I eased off the gas just a little, wanting him being as near as possible while going as fast as possible.
“Enzo,” Francesca said again, more urgently this time.
“I got it,” I replied tersely, watching my mirrors again. “Come on, you sorry fuck, keep up.”
The gate was coming up fast, but this needed to happen at the last possible moment. As the van got close to us again and the gate loomed on our left, I slammed my foot down one last time, hoping that old habits died hard and whoever was driving that piece of shit could be counted on to repeat the pattern we had been establishing along this dusty stretch of highway.
Sure enough, as soon as we started forward again, so did they, ready to come right up our asses one more time. They were not, however, ready for the sharp left that I took, swinging the Audi fast and low across the two opposing lanes of traffic and sling-shotting us toward the gate way faster than was probably safe.
“Oh, shit,” Francesca gasped, and I could see her digging her foot into the floor board, her natural inclination to hit the brake not suppressed at all by the fact that she was currently in the passenger seat.
But while my car was low and wide, built for the racetrack and exactly those kinds of curves, the van that was tailing us was not.
As I blew past the high gate wall, the wordsLake Las Vegasstanding stark against the white stucco, the van mimicked my move, swinging to the left at full speed. But that clunky piece of shit was not at all prepared to handle that kind of inertia, and as I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road, the smell of burning rubber wafting up around us, Francesca and I both watched in the mirror as the two tires on the driver’s side came off the ground, the center of gravity tossing it hard to the right. The top-heavy van continued to roll, flipping once, twice, sparks flying as it failed to complete the third rotation, coming to a screeching halt upside down against the fancy stone wall, its steel roof dragging across the asphalt as it slid.
For a moment, neither of us moved, both frozen in shock at what had just happened. But after giving Francesca a quick once over to ensure she was not hurt, I leaned over and unsnapped the glove compartment, pulling out my Glock 19. Francesca unbuckled her seatbelt, grabbing her G26 from where she’d stashed it under her seat earlier, and we both exited the car.
Walking slowly toward the smoking wreck, I listened for any signs of life. Other than the hiss of the engine, everything was quiet. I couldn’t see anything through the busted glass of the windshield, the spiderweb of cracks so complete it blocked my view of the interior entirely. When I reached the passenger door, I crouched down, looking inside that shattered window and squinting into the dark interior of the van.
And there, sprawled awkwardly across the roof of the van, bleeding like a stuck pig, was the man from theVeer Towersecurity videos. The man with the ridiculous mustache who had tried, repeatedly, to kill my wife.
“Is he dead?” Francesca asked, peering inside over my shoulder. Her voice revealed no emotion, and I was once again shocked at how incredibly strong this woman was.
“I doubt we’re that lucky,” I replied, although to be honest, I hoped he was alive. I had more than a few questions for this fucker, as well as wanting to smash his fuckin’ face in with a bat for his crimes.
That inner part of me, that most basic, primal part, wanted to hurt this man for even daring to think about my wife. She was mine.
Mine to hold. Mine to protect. Mine to love.
Mine.
And no one—certainly not this fat fuck—was gonna take her from me.
I was just about to stand up and walk away, prepared to leave the scene of this accident just as fast as we had reached it, when mustache man let out a pained groan, reaching up and rubbing a hand along his bleeding forehead.
“Wakey wakey, asshole,” I said, thumping the butt of my gun against the busted door of the van. “Time to face the music.”
“Fuck you, Argenti,” came his wheezing response.
“Well, that’s not very polite,” I said. “You know my name; why don’t you tell me yours?”
“I ain’t—” he cut off on a gasp, the puddle of blood beneath him continuing to spread. I couldn’t see an injury, but the whole place was covered in broken glass, so it could have been anywhere.
