The masked men didn’t slow down. Gunfire kept hammering the air behind Lewis, sharp cracks snapping past the Bugatti as rounds skipped low, aimed deliberately at rubber and rims. The sound was different now—less wild, more intentional. They were trying to cripple him, not scare him. Lewis felt it immediately. “Tires,” he said under his breath. Maria’s fingers tightened against the seatbelt. She didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed forward, tracking the road, the traffic, and the thin margins between survival and chaos. “They're not slowing down,” she said quietly. Lewis adjusted his grip, posture tightening. His hands were steady on the steering, movements economical—no wasted motion. The Bugatti Chiron Super Sport screamed as he nudged it faster, the suspension absorbing the parkway’s imperfections like it was born for this exact moment. Behind him, the NYPD van mirrored every move. Inside the van, the junior officer driving was locked in—jaw set, sh

His hands gripped the steering wheel with unyielding precision. Samuel’s Chrysler zigzagged violently ahead, tires screeching, sparks flying from metal rims barely holding onto asphalt. Each swerve was a calculated attempt to shake Lewis, but the Bugatti responded as though it read his mind—tires gripping, engine roaring, aerodynamics slicing through the air. Lewis fired from the side window, three bullets streaking toward Samuel’s Chrysler tires. The first two missed by inches, ricocheting off asphalt. The third struck the rear tire, which instantly began to hiss and smoke. Samuel’s eyes narrowed, but a grin twisted his features. “You’ll have to do better than that!” Samuel shouted over the roar, his Chrysler jerking violently as he slammed on the brakes mid-zigzag, expertly correcting the trajectory. He pulled a concealed gun from under the dashboard, popping it from the window and firing at Lewis. Lewis’s body reacted on instinct, the Bugatti swerving violently ye

His shoes scraped helplessly against the asphalt as the officers dragged him forward. Phones were already up. People had spilled out of cars and onto sidewalks despite the shouted orders to stay back. Some stood frozen, mouths open. Others whispered urgently into their devices, eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s… that’s Samuel Gordon.” “No way. The CEO. The billionaire?” “Gordon Technologies? That’s Gordon?” The disbelief rolled through the crowd like a wave. This wasn’t how men like him were supposed to be handled—not hunched, not cuffed, not being helplessly hauled forward by uniformed officers with grim, professional faces. Ash smeared the cuffs of Samuel’s sleeves. Smoke clung to his hair. The billionaire titan who once moved markets with a phone call was now being pulled through debris like a common criminal. Samuel felt every stare. His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared even as his hands were locked behind him. Fury burned in his eyes as he twisted his h

The corridor opened into a broader passageway leading toward the detectives’ wing. The air felt heavier here—older, layered with years of confessions, denials, and truths dragged into the light. Shoes scuffed against tile. Chains clinked softly with each step. Samuel walked stiffly between the officers, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to suggest defiance. The fluorescent lights reflected off his cuffed wrists, the metal biting slightly into his skin. He ignored it. He had endured boardroom ambushes harsher than this. Or so he told himself. They stopped in front of a solid oak door with a frosted glass panel. The senior officer raised his knuckles and knocked. KNOCK! KNOCK!! The sound echoed sharper than expected. “Come inside,” a voice called, firm and measured. The door opened. Samuel was guided in first. The room was larger than the interrogation room he’d just left—four desks arranged in a loose square, walls lined with filing cabinets, and

An order came almost immediately. “Move faster!” The senior officer said, voice clipped and calm. “Secondary transport only. Keep spacing tight.” The armored SUV rolled forward first, tires crunching lightly over scattered debris as it eased past the smoldering wreck. The junior officers moved with practiced speed, guiding Samuel into the new vehicle, chains checked twice, seats locked, and positions confirmed. Lewis eased the Bugatti Chiron Super Sport back into gear, engine purring low as it fell in behind the armored SUV. Maria’s hands rested rigidly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the police lights ahead. The street opened slightly as they began to pull away. Then—movement. Far down the avenue, where the streetlights thinned and shadows pooled between parked cars, a shape shifted. The figure stepped into partial light again, tall, broad-shouldered, with a long trench coat hanging stiffly from his frame. Same man that shot the Tahoe. Something metallic gli