Vixen's boots punished the Maserati's pedals as the supercar tore along the serpentine mountain roads, her knuckles going pale on the wheel. The rearview mirror revealed an unholy pursuit - two blacked-out SUVs packed with Moretti's made men - a pack of rabid wolves hot on her tail, guns blazing. Tracer fire raked across her chassis, winking off the armored paneling in showers of sparks.
She whipped that wheel hard, hair-pinning around the next bend, and that's when all hell broke loose.
The night fractured with the thundering roar of rotor wash as a chopper materialized overhead, blinding searchlights scouring the road like the unforgiving gaze of God Himself.
"Sweet mother of--" Vixen snarled a breathless curse through gritted teeth, breath rasping. Of course that Rancid tub of lard Moretti would spare no expense scrambling air support for this twisted cat-and-mouse game.
