Read Chapter 36: The Tunnel Chase

The maintenance shaft spat Alex out into a gray concrete throat that smelled of exhaust and hot rubber. He pressed his back to the wall, gasping. His shoulder screamed—the stitches Jules had put in were holding, barely, but the run through the tunnel had turned the wound into a wet furnace under his jacket. He clamped a palm over it and forced himself to move.

The race tunnel was alive with vibration. Engines howled somewhere above, muffled by layers of service flooring, but down here the sound was a low animal growl that shook the dust from the pipes. Emergency lighting flickered in sickly amber pulses. Alex counted his breaths. Six hours until the broadcast. He had maybe one of those left before Viktor's men realized he wasn't dead and came looking.

His phone buzzed. Zoe's emergency signal had gone from intermittent to a continuous pulse—a flat red heartbeat that meant one thing: she was on the move and something was behind her.

He broke into a jog, then a run. The tunnel curved left, and he came out into a wider service bay where the Grand Prix support vehicles idled in rows. A maintenance golf cart sat unattended, keys in the ignition, a mechanic's jacket draped over the seat. Alex grabbed the jacket, winced as the movement pulled his shoulder, and swung into the cart. The engine whined to life.

He floored it.

The cart's top speed was maybe forty kilometers an hour, but through these narrow service passages it felt like a rocket. He blew through a yellow-striped intersection, tires squealing, and nearly clipped a fuel drum. A worker shouted something behind him. He didn't stop.

The tunnel opened into a wider artery—the main service corridor that ran parallel to the track's final chicane. And there, two hundred meters ahead, he saw headlights cutting through the haze. A black Citroën, moving fast, swerving between parked vehicles. Behind the wheel, a flash of red hair.

Zoe.

She saw him. Her headlights flashed twice, then she swerved hard left, taking a ramp that led down toward the port access road. Alex followed, the golf cart bucking over a speed bump hard enough to rattle his teeth. His shoulder took the impact and white fire shot down his arm. He bit through it.

The ramp spat them out onto a service road that hugged the harbor seawall. The water was black and slick, dotted with the running lights of berthed yachts. Zoe's Citroën weaved ahead, and Alex saw what had her spooked: two black SUVs closing fast from the rear, their headlights strobing as they gained.

Viktor's men. They'd split the search. One team had gone to the helipad, but the others must have been waiting near the port the whole time—a contingency Viktor had never mentioned.

Alex pushed the golf cart to its limit. The engine screamed. He pulled alongside Zoe's passenger door, and she rolled the window down, face pale, knuckles white on the wheel.

"The USB is in my bag!" she shouted over the wind. "But they've got a jammer—I can't raise the extraction team!"

Alex glanced in the side mirror. The SUVs were gaining. One of them pulled into the adjacent lane, and a passenger window rolled down. A rifle barrel emerged.

"Down!" Alex yelled.

Zoe dropped. The first shot took out her rear window, glass exploding in a glittering spray. Alex wrenched the golf cart's wheel, cutting between Zoe and the shooter, using his tiny vehicle as a shield. A second round punched through the cart's thin bodywork, singing past his ear.

The road curved hard along the seawall. Up ahead, a barricade—orange cones and a striped barrier across the road, a construction crew's left-behind obstacle. Zoe saw it too. She swerved, but the Citroën's rear end kicked out on the wet asphalt. She overcorrected. The car spun, clipped the barrier, and slammed into a concrete pillar with a sickening crunch of metal.

The golf cart hit the same barrier a second later. Alex was thrown forward, chest slamming into the steering wheel, the mechanic's jacket ripping as his shoulder absorbed the impact. White light flooded his vision. For a moment, everything was static.

Then he forced his eyes open. Zoe's car was crumpled against the pillar, steam hissing from the engine. Her door was wedged shut. The SUVs were a hundred meters back, braking hard, doors already opening.

Alex shoved himself out of the golf cart, stumbled to the Citroën, and yanked on Zoe's door. It didn't budge. He grabbed the shattered window frame and pulled, glass slicing his palm. The door groaned open six inches. Zoe squeezed through, clutching a black canvas bag to her chest. Blood ran from a cut above her eyebrow, but her eyes were clear.

"Run," she said.

They ran. Down the seawall, boots sliding on wet stone, the SUVs' engines growling behind them. Alex's shoulder was bleeding through the jacket now, hot and slick against his side. He could feel his strength draining with each step. There was nowhere to go but the water—no boats tied at this section of the quay, just a steep drop to the black chop below.

A shot rang out. Concrete exploded near Zoe's feet. She stumbled, and Alex grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the only cover available: a stack of rusted shipping containers against the seawall.

They pressed flat against the metal. Voices shouted behind them, boots pounding closer. Alex pulled Zoe's bag open, found the USB drive inside, and pressed it into her hand.

"Swim," he said. "The current takes you north. There's a private slip at the old customs house. Get to—"

"I'm not leaving you."

"You don't have a choice." He forced a grin, blood flecking his lips. "I'm the distraction. It's what I do."

Footsteps rounded the container. A man in black tactical gear raised a rifle. Alex lunged—not toward the man but toward the container's edge, hooking his leg around a loose chain and swinging his body into the gap between the metal boxes. The rifle round sparked off the container's side. The shooter followed.

And then a new sound cut through the night: the roar of a motorcycle engine. A Ducati slid into the gap between the containers and the seawall, rear wheel fishtailing, rider clad in black leather with a matte-gray helmet. The shooter turned, rifle coming up, and the rider's arm extended—a snub-nosed revolver barked once, twice. The shooter dropped.

The rider killed the engine and lifted the helmet. Familiar dark eyes. A thin scar through one eyebrow. The rival thief who had taken the Vanth pendant job from Alex's crew six months ago—the one who'd vanished with the payout and a trail of bodies.

Nadia.

"Get on," she said, her voice flat.

Alex stared at her. "You're supposed to be in Croatia."

"I was. Then I heard Viktor was paying double for your head. Figured I'd take the other side of that bet." She nodded toward Zoe, who was frozen, clutching the USB. "Both of you. Now. The yacht's fifty meters north."

More boots pounded behind them. Alex didn't argue. He shoved Zoe onto the Ducati's seat, then climbed on behind her, wrapping his good arm around her waist. Nadia twisted the throttle. The bike screamed, launching them along the seawall, past the containers, past a cluster of startled workmen, down a narrow ramp that ended at a floating dock.

There, tied to the dock, sat a low-slung white motor yacht—running lights off, engine already purring. Nadia killed the bike's engine at the dock's edge, and they scrambled aboard. She sealed the cabin door, moved to the helm, and throttled up. The yacht slid away from the dock with a whisper, black water splitting beneath its hull.

Zoe collapsed onto a bench, clutching the bag. Alex leaned against the cabin wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor, blood soaking his jacket. Nadia glanced back at him, expression unreadable.

"Viktor will have every port locked down by sunrise," she said. "We have maybe four hours before his reach expands past what I can outrun."

Alex looked at her. "Why?"

Nadia's mouth curved into a thin smile. "Because I read the ledger Zoe leaked. Viktor wasn't just laundering money. He was moving people—girls, boys, anyone who wouldn't be missed. My sister was one of them. Ten years ago."

She turned back to the helm. The yacht picked up speed, cutting toward open water, leaving the lights of Monaco shrinking behind them.

Zoe opened the bag, pulled out the USB, and held it up. "We still have the broadcast. Six hours. We can—"

"He's not at the casino anymore," Alex said, his voice rough. "If he knows his money's gone and the ledger's out, he's running. Viktor's not waiting around for an arrest." He lifted his head, meeting Zoe's eyes. "We need to change the plan. We're not exposing him to the world anymore. We're bringing him to us."

Nadia raised an eyebrow. "You have an idea?"

Alex's smile was bloodied but genuine. "He still thinks I'm dead. Best advantage we've got. Let's use it."

The yacht's engines hummed. Behind them, Monaco's lights faded into the dark. Ahead, nothing but open sea and the hour before dawn.