Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

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.