I was washing the car when my ten-year-old son screamed from somewhere inside the house.

“Dad, where are we going?” Leo rubbed his eyes, clutching his backpack. It was 3:15 AM.

“We’re going on a trip, buddy. A sudden camping trip.” I lied through my teeth, packing a duffel bag with warm clothes, all the cash in my safe, and the USB drive.

I couldn't take my car; it had a GPS tracker from the dealership. I grabbed the keys to Richard’s Mercedes, which was still parked in my driveway. If Elena's men were watching, they would expect us to flee out the front door.

We slipped out through the basement storm doors, crawling through the damp grass of the backyard, shielded by the tall oak trees. The black SUV was still parked out front, its engine idling, exhaust pluming in the cool night air.

We made it to the neighbor's driveway and cut across three lawns before looping back to the street where Richard’s car was parked. I strapped Leo into the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hot-wired the ignition—a trick I learned in my reckless youth—and the V8 engine roared to life.

The brake lights of the black SUV flared. They spotted us.

I slammed the gas pedal, tearing out of the neighborhood, tires squealing against the asphalt. The SUV spun around, its high beams blinding in my rearview mirror.

“Dad!” Leo screamed as a bullet shattered the back window, showering the leather seats in safety glass.

“Keep your head down!” I yelled, swerving onto the main arterial road. I drove like a madman, blowing through red lights, pushing the heavy German car to its limits. The SUV was relentless, a massive steel predator riding my bumper.

I knew the local roads better. I took a hard left onto a narrow service road that ran behind the industrial park, hit the brakes, and spun the wheel, sending the Mercedes into a controlled drift behind a row of shipping containers. I cut the engine and the lights.