"Cut the siren," I ordered.
Miller reached up and flipped the master audio toggle. The wail died instantly, leaving only the deep, rhythmic roar of the engine and the thunder of tires over steel decking.
"Load MK18s," I said, pulling my carbine from between the seats and resting the barrel against the door sill. "Positive target identification only. Maya is in that vehicle. If you aren't a hundred percent certain of your background, you do not take the shot."
"Understood," Miller replied, his thumb flicking the safety selector on his weapon to fire.
We banked hard off the lower roadway, plunging down the concrete spiral of the 21st Street ramp.
The scene below was carnage.
Ramos’s unmarked gray Chevrolet Tahoe sat jammed diagonally across the two-lane off-ramp, its front bumper crumpled deep into the yellow water-filled impact attenuator barrels. Half a dozen plastic barrels had ruptured, spewing hundreds of gallons of water and sand across the roadway.
Pinning the Tahoe against the high concrete barrier was a midnight-black Dodge Charger, its radiator steaming, fluids leaking into the gutter.
Fifty feet down the ramp, a second black Charger was reversing rapidly, heavy steel cable unwinding from a drum mounted in its trunk.
Two men in charcoal tactical coveralls, wearing gray ballistic helmets and full-face respirators, were actively working the rear doors of Ramos’s Tahoe with an oversized hydraulic spreader. The metal frame of the rear window was screeching as the hydraulic jaws pushed the reinforced door out of its tracks.
Inside the shattered rear window, I could see the pale, terrified face of my daughter, clutching her purple backpack against her chest, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
Beside her, Ramos was slumped halfway across the front bucket seats, her hand still clutching her Glock, blood streaming from a gash across her temple where a piece of flying safety glass had caught her.
"Hit them," I said.
Miller didn't touch the brakes. He aimed the hardened steel bull bar of our Suburban directly at the rear quarter panel of the reversing Charger that was preparing to haul the cable.
The impact was catastrophic.
Three tons of armored federal steel struck the Charger at forty-five miles per hour. The sound was like a freight train jumping tracks. The Charger’s rear axle sheared in half, the rear tires folding inward with a shriek of tearing metal, and the entire vehicle spun two hundred and seventy degrees before slamming broadside into the concrete viaduct support pillar.
The two men at the rear of Ramos's Tahoe froze, startled by the thunderous collision.
Before the glass from the crash had finished raining down onto the asphalt, I had my door open.
I dropped to one knee behind the engine block of the Suburban, the carbine stock locked firm into the pocket of my shoulder.
The man holding the hydraulic tool dropped the equipment, his right hand snapping down toward a submachine gun slung across his chest—a compact Swiss B&T APC9.
He never cleared the sling.
I squeezed the trigger twice. Two rounds of 5.56mm duty ammo struck him center-mass, piercing his soft body armor. The impact lifted him backward off his heels, throwing him against the crumpled rear quarter of the Tahoe before he slid down into the slick, oily water covering the concrete.
The second assailant, seeing his partner drop, didn't attempt to engage. He broke toward the driver's side of the primary Charger, using the Tahoe’s chassis as mobile cover, firing two blind shots with an automatic pistol over his shoulder as he ran.
One round starred the windshield of our Suburban; the second ricocheted off the steel truss above my head with an angry whine.
"Cover the perimeter!" I yelled to Miller.
I moved forward in a low, aggressive tactical advance, clearing the gap between the vehicles in three long strides.
The fleeing shooter scrambled into the open driver’s seat of the first Charger, desperately slamming his hand against the ignition button. The engine turned over with a violent backfire, the rear tires spinning furiously against the wet road, trying to gain traction through the puddle of radiator coolant.
I rounded the corner of the trunk, brought the muzzle of my carbine three inches from the driver’s side window, and drove the steel flash-hider directly through the safety glass.
The tempered glass shattered into thousands of cubes. I reached my left hand through the frame, seized the man by the rubber rim of his respirator, and hauled him halfway out of the broken window, driving the muzzle of the carbine directly against the bone behind his ear.
"Cut the engine!" I roared. "Cut it or I paint this ceiling with you
The man’s hands flew off the steering wheel. He hit the start-stop button with a trembling gloved palm. The engine died, leaving only the hiss of escaping steam and the distant, approaching thrum of twin turbine engines from the East River.
"Both hands outside the frame!" I commanded.
Miller was there a second later, dragging the man out through the broken glass, forcing him down into the running water of the gutter, and zip-tying his hands behind his back with heavy tactical restraints.
I turned away from the prisoner and lunged toward the rear door of the crushed Tahoe.
"Maya!"