Chapter 3 Hunted Down
Three years later.
"Mr. Gordon, you have my word. I'll do everything I can to help you." I made this promise to the man sitting across from my desk.
The afternoon sun streamed through my office windows, casting long shadows across the polished oak surface. Gordon sat hunched forward in the leather chair, his weathered hands gripping a manila folder containing what remained of his son's life. Police reports. Hospital records. Death certificate.
Gordon still looked worried. "Attorney Ashley, are you sure about this? You know that Hunter's father is Isaac, a major businessman. Other lawyers won't take our case. They're all scared of crossing Isaac."
I studied Gordon's exhausted face. I knew how much this elderly father was suffering inside. The way his shoulders sagged reminded me of my own pain three years ago.
His son was killed last week when that rich brat Hunter plowed into him with his car. Hunter had been drag racing with his buddies after a night of drinking expensive whiskey his daddy bought him.
Twenty-three years old. That's how old Gordon's boy had been. Just starting his life, saving money for college, planning to propose to his girlfriend next month.
And Hunter? With his daddy's money backing him, he got six months and only had to pay ten grand in damages. A human life worth only ten thousand dollars.
I leaned forward, matching Gordon's intensity. "Mr. Gordon, I've seen this song and dance before. Rich brats think money can wash away blood. But I've built my career on proving them wrong."
Gordon's eyes filled with tears. "My boy Tommy was everything to me. After his mother died, he was all I had left."
I reached across the desk and squeezed his hand. "We're going to make sure Hunter pays for what he did. Real justice, not the joke they tried to serve you."
I looked Gordon straight in the eye. "Don't worry. I won't back down halfway through this."
After seeing Gordon out, my assistant Susan brought me an iced americano.
Three years of working together meant Susan knew exactly what I needed. She'd learned to read my moods, to anticipate when I'd need caffeine or space or just someone to listen. We'd developed a perfect rhythm in our professional partnership.
I spoke before she could open her mouth. "Don't bother trying to talk me out of this. I'm taking the case."
Susan actually laughed. "I wasn't planning to talk you out of anything today. I just wanted to remind you that Mrs. Patterson's murder case goes to trial next Wednesday."
We both smiled at that.
Susan understood me better than anyone. She knew what torture it had been for me to let that piece of garbage Julio walk free three years ago. She'd been there through the sleepless nights, the nightmares, the days when I could barely drag myself to the office.
My parents died for nothing. Alva with his gentle hands that could fix any engine, Emma with her fierce love and protective spirit. That killer Julio just waltzed off to Canada for so-called therapy. What a joke. He was probably sipping cocktails on some private beach while my parents rotted in the ground.
The system had failed them. Failed me. Failed James, who still woke up screaming some nights.
So when I met people like Gordon who'd been screwed by the system, I helped when I could. Every case was a chance to balance the scales, to prove that sometimes the little guy could win.
It was midnight when I drove north on Interstate 5. I'd been working late again, preparing Gordon's case. The stack of legal briefs on my passenger seat rustled every time I hit a bump. I knew Isaac's lawyers would throw everything they had at us. Money bought the best legal minds in the city.
Usually the road was deserted at this hour, but tonight felt different.
I spotted a Ford in my rearview mirror, getting closer by the second. At first I thought nothing of it. Plenty of people drove this route at night. Shift workers heading home, truckers making deliveries.
But the Ford stayed exactly three car lengths behind me for the next five miles. When I changed lanes, it changed lanes. When I slowed down to test my theory, it slowed down too.
Something was wrong. I hit the gas.
The Ford sped up too, its engine roaring as the driver floored it. The headlights in my mirror grew brighter, closer. My heart hammered against my ribs as I realized what was happening.
This wasn't random. Someone had been waiting for me.
I pressed harder on the accelerator, pushing my sedan to its limits. The speedometer climbed past eighty, then ninety. The Ford matched my pace effortlessly.
The impact came without warning. The Ford rammed straight into my rear bumper with a sickening crunch of metal. My car lurched forward, tires screaming against asphalt.
My world exploded in red. My forehead slammed into the steering wheel and blood poured down my face, warm and sticky. The taste of copper filled my mouth.
I couldn't move. My seatbelt had locked tight across my chest, and my left shoulder felt like it was on fire. Through the spider web of cracks in my windshield, I saw the Ford's door slam shut.
Strong hands dragged me from the wreckage. My legs gave out as soon as my feet hit the ground. The man holding me smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne.
"Ashley, my boss wants me to give you a message." His voice was rough, like sandpaper. "Drop the charges against Hunter if you know what's good for you, or we'll put you in the ground."
Same old playbook. Rich families thinking they could intimidate their way out of consequences. I let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough.
"Shit!" The word came out garbled but clear enough. I flipped him off with both hands, my middle fingers shaking but defiant.
He clearly hadn't expected me to tell him to go screw himself. His face twisted with surprise, then rage. "You stupid bitch. You should have taken the easy way out."
Rage twisted his face as he drew back his fist. His knuckles were scarred, probably from plenty of practice beating up people who couldn't fight back.
A gunshot cracked through the night. Not me getting punched.
The tough guy who'd been so cocky a second ago was now on his knees, screaming like a wounded animal. Blood gushed from his leg where the bullet had torn through muscle and bone. He clutched his thigh, trying to stop the bleeding.
Who the hell had saved me?
I looked toward the figure walking slowly out of the darkness, backlit by the Ford's headlights. Each step was casual, lazy. The silhouette was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a predator's grace.
One glance was all I needed.
Fury set my blood on fire.
It was him.
Julio！