Friday, 11:30 PM. The Streets of Washington D.C.
Darius threw the heavy SUV into a violent, tire-screeching drift, taking a sharp right turn onto a narrow, dimly lit residential street in Adams Morgan. The G-force slammed me against the leather door panel. I braced myself, my eyes locked on the rearview mirror.
The two unmarked black SUVs didn't hesitate. They took the corner with terrifying, synchronized precision, their heavy engines roaring as they closed the gap. They weren't driving like cops trying to pull us over; they were driving like predators trying to run their prey off the road.
"They're gaining," Darius grunted, his massive hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He swerved to avoid a parked car, the side mirror clipping it with a loud crack. "These guys are professionals, Jake. Ex-military or private contractors. They know how to box us in."
