The black getaway sedan tore through the outskirts of Port Haven, its tires screaming in a desperate protest against the wet pavement. Inside the cabin, the air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the frantic, shallow breathing of five men who realized their clean exit had turned into a high-stakes pursuit.
The leader of the crew sat in the passenger seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the dashboard. Despite his attempt to project the cold stoicism of a veteran criminal, a flicker of genuine primal fear danced in his pupils. He kept glancing at the side mirror, watching the silhouette of the pursuit vehicle close the gap with predatory steadiness. He couldn't shake the image of Liam Livingston in the bank—a man who had absorbed a bullet and a heavy bludgeoning only to stand the
