Chapter 8 - The Desperate Ploy
The police cruisers tore through the dirt road, surrounding our position entirely.
"We have to move," I yelled, dragging Ricardo to his feet.
His face was pale, and he was losing blood far too quickly.
I grabbed Leo's hand and pulled them both toward Ricardo's armored SUV.
I shoved them into the back seat and jumped behind the steering wheel.
A corrupt officer raised a shotgun and fired at our windshield.
The bulletproof glass cracked into a spiderweb pattern but miraculously held together.
I slammed the gas pedal to the floor, running the heavy vehicle directly through the police blockade.
Metal crunched and sparks flew as we forced our way back onto the main highway.
"Where are we going?" I panicked, checking the rearview mirror.
"There is a safehouse in Brooklyn," Ricardo groaned from the back seat.
He gave me the address before passing out completely.
I drove like a madwoman, weaving through traffic and praying the tires would hold.
We arrived at a rundown garage hidden in the industrial district.
I carried Leo inside and then dragged Ricardo's heavy, unconscious body onto a dirty sofa.
I tore open his bloody shirt and used clean rags from the garage to pack his bullet wound.
I was terrified, but I knew I could not let him die.
I searched Ricardo's pockets and found a heavy, encrypted satellite phone.
"Who do I call?" I muttered to myself, unlocking the screen.
There was only one contact saved in the emergency list.
It was labeled "The Commission."
I pressed the call button, knowing this was the highest authority in the mafia underworld.
A deep, gravelly voice answered on the first ring.
"Ricardo is dying, and Vincent's corrupt cops are hunting us," I rushed out.
The man on the other end went completely silent.
"Give me your exact location," the voice finally demanded.
I gave him the address of the garage and threw the phone onto the table.
Thirty minutes later, three massive black vans pulled up outside the garage.
A dozen men in expensive suits stepped out, completely ignoring the corrupt police cars following them.
An elderly man with silver hair and a walking cane walked slowly into the garage.
He looked at Ricardo's bleeding body, and then he turned his sharp eyes toward me.
He stared at my face for a very long time.
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"It cannot be," the old man whispered in pure shock.
"Is that you, little Clara Rossi?"
