The Checkpoint

The horn blared, a long, dying note that vibrated through the frame of the car. My door was jammed, the metal buckled inward like a crushed can. Beside me, Julian was slumped against the window, blood trickling from his temple.

"Julian," I gasped, shaking his arm. "Wake up."

He groaned, his eyes fluttering open.

"The ambulance," he mumbled. "Leo."

"He got away," I said, struggling with my seatbelt. "But they're still chasing him."

I kicked the door. It didn't budge. I kicked again, harder, adrenaline surging through my veins. The lock snapped. I shoved the door open and fell onto the wet pavement.

The second SUV was idling ten yards away, steam rising from its crumpled hood. The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out. He was big, wearing the standard-issue black suit of Arthur’s goons. He raised a gun.

"Stay down!" he shouted.

I ducked behind the wreck of our car.

"Julian!" I yelled. "Get out!"

Julian crawled across the seat, tumbling out onto the asphalt beside me. He looked at the gunman. He looked at me.

"Go," he said. "Run."

"I'm not leaving you."

"You have to," he said. "Get to the ambulance. Get to the kids."

"And you?"

"I'll hold him off," Julian said. He grabbed a piece of jagged metal from the debris. It wasn't a weapon. It was a death wish.

"No," I said.

I looked around. We were on the on-ramp to the bridge. Traffic was backed up, horns honking, people shouting.

A police siren wailed in the distance.

"Police!" I screamed, waving my arms. "Help! He has a gun!"

The gunman hesitated, looking toward the sound of the siren.

It was enough.

I grabbed Julian's hand. We ran.

We dodged through the stalled cars, weaving between bumpers. The gunman fired once—a crack that echoed off the concrete barriers—but he didn't follow. He couldn't risk a firefight with witnesses.

We reached the pedestrian walkway. We kept running.

My lungs burned. My legs felt like lead. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

Somewhere ahead of us, Leo was driving a stolen ambulance with his grandmother in the back and a hit squad on his tail.

"How do we find them?" Julian panted.

"The GPS," I said, pulling out my phone. "I tracked Corinne's phone."

I opened the app. A blue dot was moving fast along the FDR Drive.

"They're heading north," I said. "Toward the safe house."

"They won't make it," Julian said. "Not in an ambulance. It's too slow."

He looked at the river below us. A ferry was churning through the dark water.

"We need a boat," he said.

"A boat?"

"The safe house is in Connecticut," he said. "Near the sound. If we can get to the marina..."

We flagged down a taxi on the other side of the bridge. The driver looked at our bloodied clothes and hesitated.

"Five hundred dollars," I said, shoving cash through the window. "Take us to the 79th Street Boat Basin."

He unlocked the doors.

We sped uptown. I watched the blue dot on my phone. It was still moving, but it was slowing down. Traffic? Or had they been caught?

"Come on, Leo," I whispered. "Keep moving."

We reached the marina. It was dark, the boats bobbing silently in their slips.

"Which one?" I asked.

"That one," Julian said, pointing to a sleek white cruiser. "The *Sea Witch*. It belongs to one of Arthur's shell companies. I have the code."

He punched a number into the keypad on the gate. It clicked open.

We ran down the dock. We jumped onto the boat.

Julian started the engines. They roared to life.

He cast off the lines. I grabbed the wheel.

"Go!" he shouted.

We surged out of the slip, the bow lifting as we hit the open water.

I checked the phone. The blue dot had stopped.

"They stopped," I said. "Near the George Washington Bridge."

"That's a chokepoint," Julian said. "If they get boxed in there..."

He pushed the throttle forward. The boat leaped.

We raced up the river, the city lights blurring past.

"There!" Julian pointed.

On the highway above us, flashing lights. Police cars? Or Arthur's men?

I saw the ambulance. It was pinned against the guardrail. Two black SUVs blocked it in.

Men were getting out. They had guns.

"They have them," I said.

Julian spun the wheel. He steered the boat toward the seawall.

"What are you doing?" I screamed.

"Getting them out," he said.

He didn't slow down. He aimed the boat at the wooden pilings of the service pier directly below the highway.

"Jump!" he yelled.

We jumped.

The boat slammed into the pier with a deafening crash. Wood splintered. The hull crumpled.

But we were on the dock.

We scrambled up the maintenance ladder. We vaulted the rail onto the highway.

The gunmen turned, surprised by the noise of the crash below.

"Hey!" Julian shouted.

They raised their weapons.

But before they could fire, a siren wailed. A real one.

A state trooper cruiser screeched to a halt behind the SUVs. Then another. And another.

The gunmen froze. They looked at the police. They looked at us.

They made a choice. They jumped into their SUVs and sped off, tires squealing.

I ran to the ambulance.

I ripped open the back doors.

Corinne was huddled in the corner, holding a scalpel she must have found in the medical kit. Margaret was still strapped to the gurney, her eyes open, terrified.

And in the front seat...

"Leo!"

He was slumped over the steering wheel.

"Leo!"

I pulled the door open. I grabbed his shoulder.

He groaned. He sat up.

"Did I lose them?" he asked, rubbing his head.

"You lost them," I sobbed, pulling him into my arms. "You did it, baby. You did it."

Julian joined us, hugging Sophie who had crawled from the back.

We stood there on the highway, surrounded by flashing lights and the wreckage of our escape.

We were battered. We were bleeding.

But we were together.

And we had the package.

I looked at Margaret. She stared back at me, her eyes clearing for the first time in ten years.

"Elena," she whispered.

"We're going home, Margaret," I said.

But not to the safe house.

"Where are we going?" Julian asked.

I looked at the city skyline. At the Millennium Tower.

"We have a gala to attend," I said.