Chapter 7 - The Battle of Lincoln Tunnel
The firefight inside the closed tunnel was deafening.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the tiled walls in violent bursts of white and yellow light. Smoke from heavy automatic rifles filled the air, thick with the smell of burnt gunpowder and gasoline.
Preston ducked behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with precise, double-tap shots. Two of Rostov’s advancing mercenaries dropped to the wet pavement, their weapons clattering against the curb.
"Boss! Right side!" one of Preston’s bodyguards yelled before a hail of bullets struck him in the chest, dropping him instantly.
Preston squeezed the trigger again, dropping a third attacker who was trying to flank their position. But his slide locked back—empty.
He reached for a spare magazine, slamming it into the grip, but he was down to his last fifteen rounds. His remaining three bodyguards were pinned down behind the Escalade's flattened tires, two of them wounded.
Rostov stood fifty feet away behind an armored Mercedes, safe behind his men, a arrogant grin spreading across his face.
"You are fighting for a dead empire, Preston!" Rostov shouted over the gunfire. "Give up! Tell me the master codes to the Chicago port access, and I will let you live!"
"Go to hell, Rostov!" Preston barked back, popping out from behind the pillar to fire two rounds that forced Rostov’s lead gunman to take cover.
Suddenly, the heavy concrete rumble of a massive engine echoed from the entrance of the tunnel behind them!
A giant, dark-grey armored transport vehicle—a modified bulletproof SWAT truck belonging to Hale Security—came tearing into the tunnel at eighty miles an hour, its heavy bull-bars smashing through the rear sedans like they were made of cardboard!
The side doors of the transport flew open before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop!
Ten elite tactical guards, dressed in black body armor bearing the Hale Logistics emblem, poured out into the tunnel, firing heavy suppressed rifles with devastating, military precision!
At the head of the assault team was Marcus.
"Clear the tunnel!" Marcus roared, his massive frame advancing behind a ballistic shield, firing his weapon with terrifying speed!
Rostov’s mercenaries panicked. They had expected a quiet execution of an isolated CEO, not a full-scale tactical counter-attack by a private army. Within ninety seconds, six of Rostov’s remaining men were cut down in the crossfire, while the others threw down their rifles and fled toward the northern emergency exits.
Rostov scrambled into the back of his armored Mercedes, screaming at his driver. "Drive! Drive!"
The Mercedes reversed sharply, tires smoking on the wet concrete, smashing through a temporary maintenance barrier and speeding out of the tunnel toward the Manhattan side streets!
Marcus ran over to Preston’s position, his heavy boots crunching over spent shell casings. "Mr. Hale! Are you hit?!"
Preston stepped out from behind the concrete pillar, holstering his weapon, his crisp white shirt stained with engine grease and cordite soot.
"I'm fine, Marcus," Preston breathed, catching his breath. "How did you get here so fast?"
"We took the high-speed helicopter from Chicago thirty minutes after you left," Marcus reported, offering his boss a fresh magazine. "I didn't like the security reports coming out of the transit authority this afternoon."
Preston looked toward the exit where Rostov’s Mercedes had vanished into the New York night. His jaw tightened into a hard, unforgiving line.
"Rostov escaped," Preston said cold.
"He won't get far, sir," Marcus said, pulling a tablet from his vest. "Our tracking team has already locked onto his vehicle's transponder. He’s heading toward a private dock on the East River."
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Preston took the tablet, his eyes burning with a dark, absolute resolve.
"Call the dock authority," Preston commanded, stepping into the armored transport vehicle. "Tell them to shut down the river lanes. We are finishing this tonight."
