Chapter 33: A One and a Half Hour Drive

Hearing Lacey tell him to move his legs, Roan blinked, shifted his leg, and slammed the accelerator to the floor.

As they approached the intersection, Roan jerked the steering wheel hard. Black smoke, acrid and thick, billowed from the tires. Darren’s scream pierced the air as the black SUV traced a bizarre arc around the cars waiting at the crossroads, shot into the intersection’s center, and veered sharply to the left.

In the passenger seat, Lacey gritted her silver teeth, stifling a cry, but the force of the SUV’s drift hurled her onto Roan’s right thigh.

To her horror, Lacey realized that not only had Roan not eased off the gas, but he was steering with just his left hand while his right hand unfolded a map of New York, carefully tracing their next route.

“Roan, you—”

Before Lacey could finish, Roan found the best route, tossed her back into the passenger seat, gripped the wheel with both hands, and shouted,

“Attention, passengers! I’m about to accelerate!”

“W T F?!”

“Shit! Isn’t this already the top speed?” Darren’s voice was hoarse from shouting, his breathing labored. Lacey’s face was pale as chalk. Roan glanced down at the speedometer—since it hadn’t hit the limit, this wasn’t the fastest they could go.

Without hesitation, Roan shifted gears with his right hand and floored the accelerator. The engine roared. The SUV shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, speeding toward the distant future.

Meanwhile, Agent Jock sat in his car, hands on the wheel, staring at the black tire marks on the asphalt. He glanced at the jammed intersection ahead, his expression blank, questioning reality.

Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered, and an urgent woman’s voice came through,

“Agent Jock, the agent’s car you mentioned—was the license plate number ***?”

“That’s right.” Jock nodded, recalling the caller—a renowned field reporter for the New York News, Lynette. Lynette was one of the top-tier reporters Matthews had contacted.

Without further ado, Lynette hung up, scribbled in her notebook, “FBI agent flagrantly speeding, endangering public safety,” then patted the photographer at the wheel. She pointed at the SUV streaking ahead like a black lightning bolt.

“Follow that car! Tonight’s bonus depends on it!”

“OK!” At the word “bonus,” the photographer whooped, slammed on the gas, and gave chase.

One traffic light later, the SUV had vanished beyond the horizon.

Lynette: “......”

Photographer: “......”

Forty minutes later.

On a winding road in Bear Mountain State Park along the Hudson, Lacey braced her hands on her knees, retching. Darren was sprawled across the back seat, unconscious from vomiting.

Roan checked his watch, shook his head with disdain.

“August said it would take an hour and a half to get here from New York. Why would it take that long?”

“.....”

Hearing this, a barely recovered Lacey could only glare, barely resisting the urge to draw her gun. She wiped her mouth, took a deep breath, and asked,

“I’m never getting in your car again… What’s next?”

Roan glanced at a small cabin not far away, drew his Glock 18 and flipped the safety off, his words terse,

“Quietly approach, see if the killer’s here.”

“OK.” Lacey nodded, drew her weapon, and followed Roan’s lead. Before leaving, she closed the SUV door but left a crack in the rear window—just in case Darren suffocated inside.

The so-called “cabin” Darren mentioned was actually a small, two-story wooden villa. It looked weathered but the grounds were spacious, with a small pool in the southwest corner brimming with water.

Roan scanned the area—no security cameras that he could see. He signaled to Lacey, and together they scaled the wall in silence.

Inside the yard, a common New York cab was parked in the garage. The door hung open, and a red women’s purse lay askew on the back seat. Lacey’s eyes flashed as she whispered to Roan,

“It’s Sabina’s bag.”

When reviewing Sabina’s file, Mona had spent a long time discussing this bag’s style with her—Lacey remembered it well.

Roan whispered back,

“Looks like we found the right place. The killer should be here.”

Lacey’s pulse quickened—she hadn’t expected to find the killer so quickly. She bent to enter the villa through the garage, but Roan suddenly stopped her with a raised arm.

“?”

Lacey was puzzled. Roan sniffed, scrutinizing the cab. He noticed the fuel cap was missing.

Following Roan’s gaze, Lacey saw it too. She was about to voice her confusion when Roan sprang, knocking her to the ground.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The taxi shielded Roan and Lacey from the bullets. Before they could react, more shots rang out from the garage and the villa’s door. Roan didn’t hesitate; he drew a flashbang from his belt and hurled it toward the gunfire.

Boom!

Blinding light and deafening noise exploded. Roan, prepared for the effect, rose the instant the sound faded, and charged through the door connecting the garage and villa—but found no enemy.

“FBI!”

Before Roan could search the rooms, a man’s shout and a woman’s muffled struggle erupted from the balcony upstairs. Roan and Lacey advanced cautiously, guns raised, wary of stray shots.

“Don’t think you can arrest me!” the man shouted. “Listen! I’ve doused the bedroom and balcony with gasoline! If you try to break in, I’ll send us both to hell!”

“Mmm! Mmm!” The woman, wearing a lace dress, her mouth taped and hands bound behind her, shook her head desperately.

A man held a gun to her temple, crouched behind her, keeping his head hidden behind her back.

Roan’s expression was grim—there was no clear shot. The suspect claimed to have gasoline on the balcony; using another flashbang was out of the question—the burst of light could easily ignite the fumes.

The villa was wooden—a fire would be disastrous.

Roan exchanged a glance with Lacey, signaling her to call for backup. He kept the suspect talking, shouting,

“Take it easy, man! I promise, we won’t enter the bedroom! If you have demands, say them! As long as you don’t hurt the hostage, we can talk about anything!”

Meanwhile, Lacey hurried to the side of the villa and called headquarters.

“This is August.”

In the office of Task Force Five, August answered, glancing at his watch. It had only been forty-some minutes since Roan’s team set out. By his calculations, they should barely be a third of the way there, given the hour-and-a-half drive.

A call already… Could the car have broken down?