Race to Life

Under his loosened coat—now hanging on her shoulders—her dress ragged, in a lifeless portrait, Neva lies unconscious in the passenger seat of Ishmael's car.

She has stopped screaming, stopped struggling... stopped keeping the faith. Her senses have ceased; she's drowned deep into an ocean with no light and no air to breathe.

She is ravaged—beyond repair.

Outside, Ishmael and Zev stand beside the same car Neva was forced into, trading tense words.

"We'll fly straight to Finland. Make sure you've cleaned up here," Ishmael instructs sternly.

Now wearing only a black shirt—four buttons undone and sleeves rolled to the elbows—he's wrapped his coat around Neva.

Zev nods. "We'll take it from here," he replies. His gaze flickers to Neva through the ajar tinted window.

Even in sleep, a frown creases her brow; she looks shattered.

It unsettles Zev to feel pity for her.

He knows how ruthless Raka can be—but to break her this mercilessly, after everything he did to possess her...

He tears his eyes away. Raka is beyond comprehension.

Meeting his gaze, Raka's death stare sends a chill down Zev's spine.

"Done gawking?" he sneers.

Zev lowers his head. "A-apologies, Raka."

With a scowl, Raka waves him off.

A gunshot rings out—booming through the silence.

Ishmael ducks instinctively, a hardened veteran used to ambushes.

"Raka! Are you alright?!" Zev yells, startled, both men crouched behind the car.

"Yeah," Ishmael growls, his gaze locked in the direction the bullet came from. "Barely."

It grazed the armored body of the car—mere inches from a direct hit to his skull.

The gang of men stands alert, caught off-guard. The first shot had been aimed at Raka. They were ready for many things—but not this.

"Fuck," Rhett mutters through gritted teeth.

Farther out, seated behind the wheel of a cab he insisted on driving, Rhett watches through the rear window.

Beside him, the terrified cab owner sits stiffly, eyes bulging in disbelief.

Rhett had maneuvered the cab through obscure trails, veiled by thick trees and rough terrain. Just one pistol. And more than thirty of Raka's men.

Clenching his jaw, Rhett slams his foot on the accelerator. The engine roars as the cab charges straight toward the outer guards.

"What are you doing?! Are you insane?!" the cab owner screams.

Rhett pays no attention—to the cries or the chaos unfurling outside.

Two SUVs were stationed farther down the road, meant to keep watch over the Agent—a job they'd clearly failed at.

The guards scramble, raising their guns as the cab thunders toward them.

"Duck!" Rhett orders. The older man beside him collapses downward just in time. Bullets rain upon them.

The windshield shatters, glass slicing through the air.

Shards spill across his jacket in a jagged heap, grazing his skin, bruising his back.

Still, the car charges forward—fast and furious. With a bone-jarring crash, it slams into the men. Four of them are flung violently, falling in bloodied heaps.

"Kill him!!" Ishmael roars.

The gang fires wildly at the cab, the sound thunderous, echoing in the forest.

Rhett leaps out from the mangled vehicle, gun in hand.

Five men remain—close. A perfect angle.

With deadly precision, he fires. One bullet after another. Headshots.

They fall before they can scream.

The rest of the gang concentrates fire on the vehicle, hammering it with bullets.

Rhett crouches low, shielded behind the car, then darts toward the fallen men. An armored SUV offers better cover.

He grabs their machine guns. Backed against the SUV, he opens fire—merciless, unrelenting.

Bodies drop. The air fills with smoke and steel.

Then—an engine roars. Ishmael flees the scene in an SUV, tearing down the dirt path.

"No, Neva..." Rhett whispers, his heart pounding, gut twisted. He knows he can save her—but anxiety claws at his chest.

Gritting his teeth, he jumps into an abandoned SUV, slams the pedal, and takes off—shadowing Raka's escape.

The gang scrambles into their own vehicles. They know better now: their bullets can't pierce the armored shell.

Cars thunder after one another. Tires screech. Headlights slash through the night.

The sky above glares, grim and storm-dark.

In the rearview mirror, Ishmael sees Rhett's car chasing close behind.

He glances at Neva—slumped against her seatbelt, head tilted, eyes closed.

His face hardens. He grips the wheel tighter and speeds up.

In the outskirts of the town, just beyond the village, the chase escalates.

The two SUVs speed like gales through narrow roads. Pedestrians scatter.

Shopkeepers freeze, wide-eyed behind glass windows, stunned by the thundering pursuit.

Seven SUVs streak past, their engines howling, a stampede of steel and smoke.

The very ground seems to quake.

At a four-way junction, Ishmael runs a red light—Rhett too close for caution.

Some trailing SUVs slam their brakes; others narrowly dodge crossing traffic.

Rhett closes the gap. Almost overtakes him—almost cuts him off.

Then—new SUVs appear, flanking Rhett from nowhere. Reinforcements. They cut him off from Neva.

Ishmael catches a glimpse of him through the rearview mirror's wide angle. He smirks—and veers into another route.

Rhett grits his teeth, cornered by cars on all sides. His heart plunges with dread.

His breaths are ragged.

As more enemy SUVs approach, Rhett spins the vehicle to face the closest one.

With steely eyes, he points the machine gun out the window. Fires.

Glass explodes. The driver is struck and slumps forward.

The SUV spirals, the passenger panicking—swerving to avoid disaster, spinning to a halt in the middle of the road.

Rhett doesn't waste time. He fires again—this time, at the gas tank.

The SUV explodes—flames roaring, smoke engulfing the road.

The SUV behind it crashes into the wreckage. Metal screeches. Three enemy vehicles now block one another—chaos sealing off the path.

Rhett whips the wheel, now facing the final line of enemies. He repeats the maneuver—targeting the windshield's weak points.

Bullet after bullet. Smoke after fire.