The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

and brought up a rifle. It was hefty, like a grenade launcher, but when the agent squeezed the trigger, it shot a pellet that attached itself to the car. It was called StarChase, a thin GPS device. Anastasia could now run all he wanted, but he could never hide, not unless he dumped the car and ran on foot. Which he couldn’t do as they were on a tall bridge. Gabriel appreciated the tactfulness of the SWAT.

Then the agent lifted another rifle fit with a scope. A sniper. He took aim and shouted, “Pop goes the weasel.”

The shot went off and the back tire of the GMC exploded.

It swerved, the trunk of the SUV lowered and grated against the tarmac before coming to a grinding halt.

Three men came bursting out with machine guns and shot at the helicopter.

“Sons of bitches,” the agent said and closed the door. Gabriel could hear tinkles as the bullets struck the metal. The agent rummaged through his bag and selected a weapon. An M4 carbine this time. Sliding the door open, he returned fire and all three fell down in under five seconds.

Stupid gangsters. Why did they even try? SWAT agents were heavily trained pros and almost all of them served in the Army.

The agent did say he was shot, but since he was wearing full-body armor, he was alright except fat bruises.

However, the helicopter got hit pretty badly. It couldn’t maintain flight and the pilot had to maneuver it down.

Morgan switched the camera to the spike-strip agent who showed them the helicopter. No fire, no smoke, no explosion like in the movies. Instead, a huge ass combat helicopter was parked in the middle of the road.

The SSA looked at Gabriel with a frown on his face.

“What?” Gabriel asked.

“Y-you are smiling at this carnage?”

Gabriel, who hadn’t known he was smiling, said, “Sorry.”

However, he couldn’t stop smiling. Because nothing was more satisfying to watch than strong bad men stopped by stronger good men.

Chapter 42

May 12, 2019. 11:58 P.M.

 

The white Hummer passed through a town called Davenport in Iowa and got stuck behind a long line of vehicles. Leo, sitting in the passenger seat, turned the volume up on the dashboard TV.

“… emerging reports suggest that this atrocity is nothing like our city has ever witnessed,” the pretty black girl said into a mike. “It begs the question, is Detroit exporting its crime?”

The camera cut to the newsroom where an anchor grimly said, “For those who haven’t heard, Southfield PD has found body parts at a marshland near Holy Sepulchre, a historic cemetery in Oakland county. An anonymous tipster who has pointed us to this macabre obscenity also told us that the remains belong to a man named Thomas Brown. The involvement of a prominent Italian Mafia family is suspected. Brown was apparently burned to death by blowtorches and—”

Ryatt punched the steering wheel of the Hummer, making it honk. Leo grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.

They had first heard about Thomas at 11:00 a.m. MST, when they were studying a bank in Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Since live events and breaking news were unaffected by time zones, Ryatt calculated that it was 1:00 p.m. in Detroit when the news reported Thomas’s murder.

They dropped everything and headed eastward with one thought in mind. Retribution.

Moving inch by inch, the traffic thinned as it climbed onto a bridge; a huge swarm of police officers were directing the influx at its entry. Giggling, Leo pulled his MAC-10 out from under the seat.

Ryatt shook his head, and he put it back. The pigs were not checking anyone, but regulating the vehicles to take only the left lane.

Once on the bridge, the traffic moved at a slightly better pace. First thing Ryatt noticed was the SWAT helicopter on the right lane. It was being hauled onto the back of an eighteen-wheeler.

Interest piqued, Ryatt observed the scene. A crane was standing on the riverbank and pulling an SUV from the water. A section of the bridge was broken on that side.

Ryatt tapped Leo’s shoulder and motioned at the glovebox. Leo took out a pair of binoculars and handed them to Ryatt. He aimed them at the car in the river.

It had a Michigan plate.

Something didn’t seem right.

“Search news from around this area,” Ryatt said.

Leo pulled his phone and began working.

“Nothing from major networks,” Leo said. “But a local YouTube channel, one Rapids Tribune, got something.”

Leo played the video.

The teenager/reporter said that a high-speed pursuit took place on the bridge connecting Iowa and Illinois. The kid with his mobile camera tried to videotape the occupants of the SUVs, but the armed SWAT men did not allow him.

He did however manage to record the other two SUVs. One had its front crushed, the other one was peppered with bullet holes. Lolly went back in the video and paused it.

On closer inspection, he found they both had Michigan plates.

Could be Bugsy sending his men after Ryatt. First they got Thomas, tortured him, and got Ryatt’s location. Then they sent goon squads after him. Did Thomas also spill the beans about Iris?

Suddenly out of breath, Ryatt pulled the car over and angry horns started blaring.

He took his cell out and opened a live monitoring app. Without Iris’s knowledge, Ryatt had installed several cameras in their house, to keep an eye on his mom.

Living room was empty, so was the kitchen. He swiped it to the bedroom. No, she was not there either.

Horns were now mixed with drivers shouting. But Ryatt didn’t move one bit. What had happened to Iris? Had Bugsy abducted her as well?

Just as he thought about calling her, he saw Iris getting out of the bathroom, toweling her hair.

Of course…

Taking a huge volume of air, he began driving again.

Ryatt