Chapter 5 - THE EMBASSY SIEGE
The victory at the Drake Hotel was short-lived.
By 2:00 p.m., as their convoy drove north along the grey, fog-choked stretch of Sheridan Road, the wireless earpiece in Mara's left ear crackled with static.
“Boss,” Marcus’s voice came through, strained and urgent from the surveillance van two cars behind them. “We’ve got a problem. Arthur didn't run. He took three security units and hit the secondary communications hub near Evanston. He’s cutting our landline relays.”
Julian’s face didn't change, but his fingers tightened around Mara's hand, which he was still holding on the leather seat between them.
“He knows he's finished,” Julian said calmly into his collar microphone. “A wounded animal always lunges toward the nearest throat. Where is the secondary team?”
“Compromised,” Marcus replied. “Arthur hired a mercenary group out of Detroit—former private military contractors. They don't care about council votes or family charters, boss. They were paid twenty million dollars up front to deliver Blythe to Arthur before nightfall.”
Mara felt a cold spike of fear run through her stomach. She looked back at the secondary sedan where Blythe was riding with two armed guards. “Can they hit us on the highway?”
“They won't try on the open road,” Julian said, looking out the tinted window at the passing grey trees. “Too many eyes, too many civilian variables. They will try at the chokepoint near the ravine bridge.”
He reached down to the floor compartment between his feet, pulled out a small electronic tablet, and tapped the screen, displaying a real-time tactical map of the North Shore district.
“We aren't going back to the house,” Julian said.
“Where are we going?” Mara asked.
“To the consulate,” Julian answered. “The French Consulate on Lake Shore Drive. It is sovereign territory. My old legion contacts handle their physical security. Once Blythe is inside those gates, Arthur can bring an army and he won't be able to touch her without starting an international incident.”
He tapped his microphone. “Marcus. Execute route Delta. All vehicles fall into defensive wedge formation. We push straight through to the lakefront.”
The three black sedans accelerated, their engines roaring as they cut across three lanes of traffic, sweeping onto the lower drive that ran parallel to the freezing lake waters.
The attack came at the intersection of Sheridan and Devon.
A heavy cement mixer truck, painted dark grey with no company logo, ran a red light at forty miles per hour, broadsiding the lead security sedan in the convoy.
The impact was deafening—a terrifying screech of twisting steel, shattering safety glass, and exploding tires. The lead sedan was thrown sideways, tumbling twice before crashing into the stone barrier of a public park.
“Hold on!” Julian roared, throwing his arm across Mara's chest, pinning her against the leather seat as their driver slammed on the brakes.
Their vehicle swerved violently, the tires smoking against the asphalt, missing the spinning wreckage of the lead car by inches.
Behind them, two dark grey vans pulled across the road, blocking the retreat route. Men in black tactical gear, helmets, and body armor poured out of the vans, carrying automatic carbines.
“Blythe!” Mara screamed, struggling against Julian’s arm to look out the rear window.
The third sedan—carrying Blythe—had been forced onto the sidewalk, its front axle broken, but its armored doors remained sealed.
“Stay down!” Julian commanded. He reached beneath his seat, pulled out a compact submachine gun, racked the bolt with a sharp clack, and kicked his door open into the freezing wind.
Gunfire erupted.
The sound was unbearable inside the narrow street—a continuous, deafening chatter of high-caliber rounds tearing through steel, concrete, and glass. Julian stepped out into the road, using the heavy armored door of the SUV as a shield, returning fire with terrifying, precise bursts.
Mara didn't stay down.
She scrambled into the front seat, grabbed the driver's emergency trauma kit from under the dashboard, and looked out the side window.
The driver of their SUV had been struck in the shoulder by glass shrapnel, blood pouring down his neck.
“Move over!” Mara shouted, pulling the bleeding driver into the center console area.
She slid into the driver's seat, hit the engine start button, and slammed her foot onto the accelerator.
The heavy armored SUV lurched forward, striking one of the mercenary vans across its front bumper, shoving it three feet sideways and opening a narrow gap in the roadblock.
“Julian!” Mara yelled out the open window, over the sound of automatic fire. “Get in! We have to clear the lane for Blythe’s car!”
Julian looked at her through the smoke, a flash of utter disbelief crossing his dark eyes, followed immediately by a fierce, wild pride.
He fired one last burst toward the cement truck, jumped back into the passenger seat, and slammed the door shut. “Drive!”
Mara didn't wait. She reversed hard, the tires screaming, rammed the secondary van to clear more space, and then spun the heavy steering wheel, pulling up right beside the disabled sedan carrying Blythe.
Marcus—his face covered in blood from a head wound—pushed the rear door of the disabled car open, shoved Blythe into Mara's SUV, and climbed in after her, holding a smoke grenade in his hand.
“Go! Go! Go!” Marcus yelled, pulling the pin on the grenade and tossing it out into the street.
A dense cloud of thick white smoke billowed across the intersection, blinding the mercenary shooters.
Mara slammed her foot to the floor. The heavy V8 engine screamed, propelling the four-ton armored SUV through the gap in the roadblock, tearing down the lakefront drive at eighty miles per hour toward the city center.
Inside the vehicle, the silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing, the thrum of the high-speed tires, and the faint, rhythmic beep of the vehicle's damaged tire pressure system.
In the back seat, Blythe sat quietly, her small arms wrapped around her satchel. She wasn't crying. She looked at Mara through the rearview mirror, her dark eyes clear and steady.
“You drive like my father,” the child said softly.
Julian let out a low, breathy laugh—a sound of pure adrenaline release—as he reloaded his weapon. He looked across the center console at Mara, taking in her disheveled hair, the smudge of black grease on her velvet dress, and the absolute, unyielding focus in her brown eyes.
“Where did you learn to drive like that, Miss Merritt?” Julian asked, his voice low and vibrating with intense energy.
“Seven years of driving an ambulance through Chicago snowstorms,” Mara said, her hands gripping the leather steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. “A bullet is just fast traffic.”
Ten minutes later, the SUV roared up to the iron gates of the French Consulate on Lake Shore Drive.
Four French diplomatic guards in full tactical dress, carrying FAMAS assault rifles, stepped out, holding up their hands.
Julian rolled down his window, held his diplomatic passport and his Foreign Legion service ring out into the cold air, and shouted three words in rapid, accentless French.
The lead guard’s eyes went wide. He snapped a hard, crisp military salute, turned, and hit the gate release button.
The heavy iron gates swung inward.
Mara drove the battered, bullet-raddled SUV through the gates onto the pristine cobblestone driveway of the consulate just as three police cruisers, their sirens wailing, pulled up along the outer perimeter wall.
The engine sputtered and died, steam pouring from the shattered radiator grill.
They were inside. Sovereign ground.
Julian stepped out of the vehicle, walked around to the driver's side, and opened Mara's door.
He didn't offer a hand this time. He reached in, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her bodily out of the seat, setting her feet down on the quiet, secure cobblestones.
He held her there for a long moment, his hands remaining on her waist, his chest heaving against hers.
“You are a completely unreasonable woman, Mara Merritt,” Julian whispered, his dark eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
May you like
“You're not so reasonable yourself, Mr. Vance,” Mara whispered back.
Above them, on the high balcony of the consulate, the French flag snapped softly in the cold winter wind, while outside the gates, the world they had just escaped burned in silence.
