With one shot to the neck and another to the front tire, the biker crashes out. A car in back of him jerks to the right with a squeal of tires to avoid hitting him. But the car ends up running right over his body and the bike anyway.
Yeah, ain’t no coming back from that.
“One down,” I inform Eli just before jerking back as another volley of bullets sprays the side of the Rover. Thank God for the bulletproof exterior or shit would be looking real different. The Hellcat pulls up alongside us, and another hitta wearing a ski mask leans out the back window, firing a SIG MPX. More bullets dance over the outside of the Range Rover.
“How many more?” I ask Eli, shoulders pressed between the backseat and the window.
“Just took out the muthafucka firing on us in the Altima. Still got the other motorcycle on our ass.”
“Got it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Hellcat pull even with us and the gunman lean farther out, gun raised again. “Tre, brake.” When he doesn’t react, only glances at me in the rearview mirror with wide eyes, I shout, “Brake, gotdammit!”
His head bobs, and a second later, he complies. The Range Rover skids to a stop, and the Hellcat shoots pass us, but it can only go so far in the LA traffic. It brakes, wheels spinning, the acrid scent of burning rubber corrupting the air. A cacophony of horns, screams, and the screech of metal and tires peppers the air, but I block it out, lowering my window farther down. TheHellcat doesn’t get far, unable to turn left or right, blocked in by vehicles with frantic drivers.
Lifting my CZ Scorpion, I pop the gunman hanging out the window in the head, then take out the two tires on the driver’s side. The car careens wildly as the driver tries to control it, but it’s too late for that. He crashes into the other vehicles, and within seconds, a second motorcycle plows into the driver’s door, the rider flipping over the hood.
Everything in me demands I jump out of this car, head over to that Hellcat, and make sure there are no survivors. My hand fists the door handle, but I stop and inhale a deep breath. Too many witnesses. Nah, correction. Too many witnesses with cell phones and cameras.
“Aye, get us out of here,” I order Tre, raising my window.
Next to me, Eli breaks down his gun, and I return the CZ Scorpion and the SIG P365 back into the hidden compartment, replacing the panel. As soon as we get back to the office, I’ll have Eli get rid of all the weapons.
“The road is blocked in front of us—” Tre stammers.
“Bruh, if you don’t back this bitch up and get us the fuck up outta here,” Eli snaps. “I don’t care if you run into every gotdamn car in our way, do what he said. The fuck?”
Tre wastes no time throwing the gear in reverse and whipping the Rover in a sharp K-turn. The big-body vehicle jolts as it smashes into cars behind it, triggering another round of screams and profanity from outside the car. Then he spins the car around and barges his way across the street into the opposite flow of traffic. Sirens blare in the near distance, but Tre hooks a right off the main road, taking us farther away from the site of the drive-by.
“Shit,” I hiss. Hiking my hips, I snatch my phone out of my front pocket and dial a familiar number. As soon as it connects, I start talking. “This is Asad Prince. You have officers on their way to a shots fired, drive-by call right now involving a black Range Rover, two motorcycles, and two more vehicles. PCH and Sunset Boulevard. Fix it.”
I hang up on the chief of police without waiting for his reply.
Fuck. I pinch the bridge of my nose. What thefuck? I’d be lying if I said this was the first attempt on my life. Shit, you can’t be in the line of business I’m in and not have people make it their business to snatch your soul. But this? This shit was messy, too public. Chief Miles can handle burying the police report and halting the investigation, but he can’t make the witnesses disappear. Ro can scrub the internet of the videos posted, but erasing people’s minds? Impossible. So again… what thefuck?
Only one gotdamn day as boss and already a hit.
And right on the heels of Marcus being taken out?
Nah. This feels personal. But at the same time… it doesn’t.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I blindly stare out the window. The bloodlust slowly ebbs, but the rage remains, roiling and clawing in my gut. For some reason, a face of bold, slashing angles with a mouth composed of lush, damn near indecent curves and a sick-as-fuck slim-thick body flickers in front of my eyes like images flashed across a phantom movie screen.
Could it be her?
Could Ember be behind the attempt on my life?
A quiet voice warns me not to underestimate her just because she’s a woman. That’s some Marcus-type thinking. Shit, some of the most brilliant bosses and deadliest killers I know are women. It’s not about what she has between her legs. That low whisper cautions me not to disregard the loathing I glimpsed in her gaze either. Her hatred for me didn’t start with me forcing her to accept my “marriage proposal.” Hers is old, aged. Like wine. The older it gets, the more potent and intoxicating. Maybe now is just when she’s decided to finally pop the cork on it, let it breathe. It could be the timing of today’s drive-by was just a coincidence with my appearance at her house.
Love. Hate. Lust. Greed.
They’re the greatest motivators for any crime. Especially murder. And the irony would be that I’m finally claiming Ember only to have her gunning for me.
My fingers curl into a fist on my thigh. If Ember is behind this shit, not her gender, her beauty, or my inexplicable obsession with her existence will save her.
Nothing will.
She’ll die screaming and begging like any of my enemies.
But another, cooler part of me scoffs at the idea. Dismisses it. Hell, I just left her house. For one, she didn’t know I planned on turning up at her house today, so her having time to plan this level of ambush is insane. And she for damn sure wouldn’t have been this messy.