A sporadic memory

The roaring Bentley whips up gravel and dead leaves as it hurtles forward at ninety miles per hour, cutting through the pavement lined with blazing orange maples, birches, and aspens.

Rhett wears a grim expression, calm yet focused, his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead.

In the right-side mirror, black cars loom larger—one after another—emerging from the massive iron gate now a mile behind.

He briefly glances at Neva in the passenger seat. Her back is rigid, pressed tight against the leather.

"Hold on tighter, Angel," Rhett says, pulling the revs higher until the needle hits 150 mph.

Neva's body is almost fused with the seat. Her breath comes sharp and shallow, her hand gripping the edge of the beige leather. Rhett doesn't bother tying her up.

Didn't all kidnappers strap their captives?

In the rearview mirror, glossy eyes track the cars behind. Is Ishmael in one of them?

She closes her eyes, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, praying he's safe. Praying the twins are safe.

When she opens her eyes again, they're already nearing the main street—cars, shops, people beginning to blur into focus.

When was the last time she stepped outside Ishmael's estate? She can't recall. But now, as the bustling world surrounds her, all she wants is to be locked away again in its safety. Inside their bedroom. In his arms.

What could she have done differently to keep herself from being tangled in this situation?

Her lips tremble, a whimper caught in her throat.

If only she could turn back time.

In the mirror, the black cars shrink into the distance—nearly gone.

Rhett slows between sixty and seventy, then swerves into a narrower street lined with shops and low-rise apartments.

He maneuvers effortlessly, dodging traffic and pedestrians with smooth precision.

Suddenly—a bullet cracks through the air.

The Bentley jolts. Gravel and dust fly as a shot narrowly misses. Screams erupt from the sidewalks. Tires shriek. Engines roar.

Neva flinches. Her heart pounds like a drum. The sound is too familiar. The terror too real.

Another bullet—closer this time, fired from the Porsche behind.

Rhett veers onto a vacant bridge instead of crossing into crowded streets. He won't risk innocent lives. But Raka—he wouldn't flinch killing two or three just for leverage.

From their aim, they're targeting the Bentley's rear tires.

Rhett has a destination in mind. He accelerates again, flinging the car toward it.

Ishmael slams the Porsche to 160. He's determined to overtake, to get parallel. The bullets don't do enough damage. His face is pale with fury, his grip on the wheel tight enough to bleach his knuckles.

He won't let someone like Czar steal Neva again—not even for a second.

He grabs the gun on the passenger seat and aims—one eye on the tires—but the Bentley disappears into an alley.

He instinctively slows down—

But Rhett's Bentley suddenly cuts across in front of him.

Ishmael's eyes widen. He slams the brakes—

Rhett steers with a sharp swing of the wheel, one hand gripping the pistol. A buried memory flickers.

And then—he fires.

The Porsche's windshield explodes. Ishmael ducks as glass shatters around him. Rhett punctures one of the front wheels.

"Stop!" Neva screams. But her cries fade into the background. Rhett's eyes lock on the gas tank.

Once.

Twice.

The third shot never lands—because Ishmael fires back.

Rhett's arm instinctively wraps around Neva, shielding her as the Bentley's windshield bursts above them. Shards rain down like hail. Bullets keep hammering the frame.

Still hunched, Rhett swerves sharply.

He rises and returns fire, aiming at Raka—but misses. Without wasting a second, he spins the wheel and dives into another alleyway. The black cars follow, their rounds still ringing against the metal.

---

They reach an open field.

A helicopter buzzes just above, blowing grass flat beneath its blades.

Rhett presses the earpiece. "Ace—cover me."

Ace, already stationed by the door of the chopper with a machine gun, nods. "Got it."

The Bentley skids to a halt.

Ace squints. Two targets—Range Rover and Maserati—barrel toward them, opening fire on the chopper. Bullets ping uselessly off the metal.

Ace squeezes the trigger.

Golden sparks fly as bullets thunder from the muzzle, riddling the SUVs.

Gas tanks rupture. Explosions bloom. The vehicles behind screech to a stop, carving deep trenches in the muddy field.

Direct hit.

The sniper's reputation in EIS isn't just earned—it's lived.

Rhett wastes no time. He carries Neva into the helicopter, shielding her from the chaos.

Two more vehicles explode. Fire. Smoke. Screams.

Soil litters the air. Blood burns on the grass. The enemy retreats.

The chopper steadily heaves up the ground. Ace snarls and fires once more. Another detonation.

A black Porsche flips.

Flames twists like serpents. Smoke swallows it whole.