FALLON
The world outside the car window blurs, a streaky mess of darkness pierced by sharp beams of light from the cars trailing us. Marcus notices them, too, curses, then floors it.
“Marcus!” I shriek, knowing it will be Leone and his men.
“I know I see them. We aren’t far out now,” Marcus answers. My heart races in tandem with the engine’s roar as Marcus presses harder on the gas pedal. His jaw is set, determination etched into every line of his face.
“Almost there,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “Pilot’s prepping for a quick takeoff.”
We swerve onto the tarmac, tires screeching in protest against the asphalt. The private jet looms ahead, a beacon of hope against a backdrop of chaos. As we skid to a halt, Marcus doesn’t wait for the car to fully stop. Instead, we
