Axel Wulf: A Romance Crime Action Thriller by Stella Marie Alden

Author:Stella Marie Alden [Alden, Stella Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-06-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

A wolf doesn’t turn around when a dog barks. ~African Proverb

Gwen

“Duck under the dash.” Axel tosses my suitcase in the back seat, jumps behind the wheel, and pebbles fly as he roars from the parking lot.

Before hiding, I turn and follow his gaze. Behind us, a menacing dark sedan with tinted windows races forward. A second later, a bullet smashes our driver’s side mirror. Lesson learned, I drop to the mat.

Near my head, a shiny dress shoe presses down on the accelerator. The storms will cause beachgoers to leave early and crowd the roads. Wulf won’t have enough room to lose our tail.

When the plastic cup holder explodes, I cry out and compress my body into a tiny ball. Without warning, black leather stomps on the brake. I’m thrown to one side, and the world spins until it stops beside a pink brick movie theater.

Unable to stay down, I poke my nose over the dash. About six hundred feet away, the vehicle behind us races forward in a game of chicken.

“Get down, dammit.” Gun out, the angry agent opens his door, places one foot on the pavement, and shoots. He must hit a front tire because the sedan rotates sideways.

Brace, girl, brace yourself. As my inner bitch screams, I lift my butt to the seat, grip the sides and place my soles on the dash.

The oncoming vehicle careens, smashes our right headlight, then slams into the back of a building.

Holy shit, that was close.

Abs facing me, my hero steps up and clunks his gun on the rooftop. “Gwen. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I’m more worried about the sawed-off shotgun in the window of the Kamikaze car.

Over my head, Axel shouts, “FBI. Don’t be stupid. Drop the weapon.”

Ignoring the command, the shooter raises double barrels while I lie flat, cover the top of my head, and pray.

Bang.

My ears throb from the loud blast. Relieved to find I’m not covered in blood, I lift my head, put my nose to my window, and gasp. “Oh shit, It’s Stephen Bourdeau.”

With no thought to his own life, my lover races across the parking lot and follows the man who shot Henry.

No fucking way. Still deaf, I climb over the cup holder, sink behind the wheel, and grind gears. Pedal to the metal, I race around the brick building and slam on the brakes inches from the Canadian. On the curb beside the northbound traffic, the mercenary tugs an older gentleman from a blue Jaguar. As the hijacked sportscar races up the mostly empty bus lane, I pull alongside the waiting Wulf, and he jumps beside me.

Ahead of us, metal crunches followed by a cacophony of honking horns and shouts. Ignoring the multi-car accident, I inch forward on the grass.

While my eyes stay glued on our suspect, the Fed calls his boss. He’s still explaining our situation when the Jag turns left, crosses the highway, and zooms down a two-lane country road.

The other car has more power under the hood, and the distance between us grows.

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