* * *
We climbed into the Ferrari, and I, for one, was relieved to be leaving the neighborhood. At least until I pulled out my phone, found the waiting message from my father.
Reed had apparently gotten to him, too, and he was pissed.
“I cannot believe you. Your disrespect for yourself, for your family, for your grandfather, for me. To barge into a man’s home, to accuse him of wrongdoing, of all people. A trusted friend and business partner. To be escorted out by the police. What if there’d been reporters? Or a tourist with a camera? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done to this family, to the Towerline project? We’re going to talk about this. We’re going to talk about this tonight.”
I guessed Reed hadn’t just called the CPD.
“Trouble, Sentinel?”
“Reed tattled. That was a very unhappy message from my father.”
I watched Ethan’s gaze dart from windshield to rearview mirror to side mirror, then back again. Magic began to lift, slowly but steadily, raising goose bumps on my arms.
“What’s wrong?”
Ethan’s gaze tracked the sequence again. “Someone is following us. White sedan, dark windows, three cars back.”
I glanced at the side mirror, and when the car immediately behind us turned onto a side street, I caught a sliver of white.
“One of Reed’s men?”
“Unless your father’s hired a hit man. Send Luc a message. Tell him Reed may be pissed, and to lock down the House. Same message to Scott and Morgan.”
I typed the messages as Ethan turned a sharp corner, tried to lose the car behind us. The movement wasn’t good for accuracy.
“I might have just told Helen to lock down the House.”
“Close enough,” Ethan said, his gaze darting between the windshield and rearview mirror. We were flying down a residential street. The Ferrari had no problem with that, but Chicago traffic was hairy on the best of nights.
The street opened, became two lanes in each direction. The white car used the opportunity to go around the remaining car and slipped back in behind us. It was an Audi, and I caught a glimpse of red hair when he drove beneath a streetlight.
“It’s Maguire,” I said. “And he’s moving faster.”
Ethan nodded. “He knows he’s been spotted and doesn’t want to lose us.”
“He doesn’t have to worry about that. He knows where we live.”
“That’s only true if he wants us to arrive safely. I don’t believe that’s the case, Sentinel.”
There was a flash, a bang, as gunshots ricocheted around the car. There was a thwack behind me as a bullet made contact with a back panel.
Ethan jerked the Ferrari to the left, the right, avoiding another spray of bullets. Maguire had upgraded his arsenal.
“Either Reed was particularly distressed by our meeting, or Maguire is acting out. Either should know better than to waste a Ferrari on vengeance.”
Ethan wrenched the car to the left across blaring traffic and onto a side street. The white car followed, leaving the crash of metal and tinkle of glass in its wake as cars hit one another to avoid smashing into it. He zoomed down a narrow street, dodging around parked cars like a skier on a slalom course.
The Audi maneuvered behind us, mirroring every swerve. Maguire was an asshole, but a capable driver. Ethan turned right, tires squealing with the motion, had room to speed up. But the Audi was right behind us, and inched closer.
“Hold on,” Ethan said, and we jerked forward as the Audi slammed us from behind.
“He is fucking insane!” I said, gripping the armrest to keep my seat.
“I fear you’re right.” Ethan sped up, but the Audi kept pace, knocked us again.
“All right,” Ethan said, “I am done with this asshole. Hold on.” He grabbed the parking brake, yanking it up as he wrenched the wheel so we spun around to the left, drifted down the street as the tires screamed in protest.
Ethan hit the gas and we darted down the street in the opposite direction. But Maguire knew the same trick, or close enough, and spun the car around to follow us.
No—not just to follow us, but to reach us. As we zoomed down the empty residential street, blowing past houses and cars and sleeping humans, the Audi darted forward so we were even.
Maguire flipped us off through the window, then slammed his car into ours.
“Shit,” Ethan said, and held the wheel, tried to keep us stable, but wind caught the car like a sail, and suddenly we were airborne. For a moment, time slowed, and Ethan gripped my hand, squeezed it with bone-crushing strength.
Take care, Sentinel, he said silently.
We rotated, flipped, soaring through the air like a luxury projectile. The world spun, dark sky now our floor, the pavement our sky . . . and then we landed with a jolt I felt in every bone, muscle, and tendon. We bounced once, then again, before skidding to a stop.
Sound and pain and smell returned with a roar like an ocean wave cresting over our heads. I tasted blood, felt a stabbing pain in my side.
I’d knocked my head against the seat back, and I blinked until the world stopped spinning. When the carousel slowed, I glanced over, the movement wrenching something in my neck.
Ethan sat beside me, utterly still, eyes closed, head bleeding from a visibly nasty gash in his forehead. Smoke began to fill the car from the crumpled hood.
I cursed, unhooked my seat belt, kicked the car door until it opened, and climbed out. I staggered on my feet and grabbed the side of the car because the world had started to spin again.
“Do not pass out,” I ordered myself, my knuckles white as I fought to stay upright while darkness circled around my vision. I clung to consciousness, taking one step at a time, my ribs screaming, both hands on the car for balance, moving around it to Ethan’s side of the car.
His door was dented, but I wrenched it open.
“Ethan!” I slapped him, got no response, tried our psychic connection. Ethan.
The silence was deafening. I put a hand to his throat, felt a low and steady pulse. The car was filling with smoke; I was going to have to move him.
I unbuckled the seat belt, leaned him forward, reached around his chest, pulled him out of the car. It wasn’t easy hauling one hundred and eighty pounds of undead weight with what I’d diagnosed as a broken rib and probably a concussion, but I managed it, and got him to the curb when sirens began to scream in the distance. I laid him on the sidewalk, tore a strip from my T-shirt, pressed it to the unpleasant-looking wound in his forehead.
I didn’t stop to consider the possibility he might have been killed, that both of us might have been killed. That, I knew, would have set off an entirely new wave of panic, and I didn’t have time for that.