Page 78 of Forced By the Bratva

We scattered, each vehicle trailing a set of headlights, engines screaming down separate roads into the dark.

The first shots hit the rear windshield as I cut hard around the corner, glass spidering but holding.

“Get down!”

Iris dropped low in her seat, the package clutched to her chest. Headlights filled the mirrors, two or three vehicles closing fast through the industrial sprawl behind us.

I took the next turn without braking, tires screaming across wet asphalt as the car fishtailed before I hauled it straight again.

Warehouses blurred past on either side, chain-link fences and stacked containers casting long shadows under sodium lights.

Another round of gunfire. This one clipped the side mirror on her side clean off.

I stayed calm, my eyes focused on the road ahead.

“They’re gaining!” Iris’s voice was tight and controlled, despite the fear in it.

I checked the mirror that was left. She was right. Whoever was driving that lead car knew what they were doing, closing the gap through turns I’d expected to shake them on.

I cut left down a narrow access road, barely wide enough for the car, clipping a stack of empty pallets that exploded across the asphalt behind us. It bought a few seconds; one of the pursuing vehicles swerved hard to avoid the debris.

But that wasn’t enough.

The road ahead split, one route curving back toward the main highway, the other running straight toward the rail yard.

I heard the horn before I saw the tracks. Long, rising, close.

I thought for a moment, and an idea formed fast, the kind I didn’t have time to second-guess.

I could take the turn, cut left, buy us another few minutes on these roads before they closed the gap again. Or I could do something they wouldn’t expect.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, and I stepped on the gas.

“Ilya, what are you doing—” Iris’s voice climbed sharp. “That’s a train. Are you insane? You’re going to get us killed!”

I kept my eyes on the tracks, on the timing, on the long black shape barreling in from the right.

“Hold on to something,” I said. “It’s about to get bumpy.”

She grabbed the door handle, the seatbelt already locked across her chest, eyes squeezed shut. Her lips moved fast, silently, as if in prayer.

The horn screamed louder.

I didn’t slow down. Instead, I floored it.

In a split second, the car shot across the crossing, tires bouncing hard over the rails, the whole frame jolting as we cleared the far side.

The horn hit its peak right behind us, deafening, and I caught the flash of the train’s front light in the side mirror a half second before the engine roared past.

Long. Endless. Car after car thundering across the crossing, sealing the road behind us like a wall.

I eased off the gas, checking the mirror again. Headlights on the other side, stacking up uselessly against the tracks, brake lights flaring red as the pursuit came to a dead stop.

They weren’t getting through that. They weren’t crazy enough.

Iris opened her eyes slowly, chest still heaving, hands white-knuckled on the door and the seatbelt both.

“We made it,” she said, like she didn’t quite believe it. “Oh, my God, we actually made it.”