The roar of the Dodge Viper's engine pierced the night like a thunderclap. Chianti, her eyes wide with adrenaline and madness, weaved through traffic with almost inhuman precision. Her boots nearly crushed the accelerator into the floor, and the torque shoved Cohen so hard into the seat that he instinctively grabbed the overhead handle.
"If we go any further, we'll hit the suburbs! What the hell is Cointreau up to!?"
"No idea. He said to follow him—so that's what we're doing."
Chianti gritted her teeth and downshifted sharply, the black sports car surging forward again.
Meanwhile, the Black Organization's Hummer, driven by Vodka, was under siege.
The enemy's pursuit intensified: SUVs, sedans, motorcycles, and more were all hunting them down. One motorcyclist closed the gap, lifted a submachine gun, and began peppering the Hummer's cab at nearly point-blank range. The bulletproof windshield spiderwebbed with cracks, nearly blinding the driver.
But Vodka stayed cool.
He cut the wheel, the Hummer swerving hard. The biker veered away—but a car from the opposite flank rushed in, opening fire at them with reckless abandon.
"Where are Chianti and Cohen?!"
"Behind you! Want us to act?" Chianti's voice buzzed in through the earpiece.
"Not yet. Wait for the signal… Vodka, shift to the leftmost lane."
Chianti's pulse surged at the sound of Hayashi Yoshiki's chilling countdown. Her hands white-knuckled the steering wheel.
She downshifted again. The Viper roared, the engine snarling as she gunned it—surging past the Hummer at incredible speed.
More than one opened fire on her vehicle.
Chianti didn't blink. Her car tore through the oncoming wind like a bullet, overtaking the Hummer just in time.
In the back seat of the Hummer, Hayashi Yoshiki was calm. Unbothered. His voice was as flat as ever.
Gin's pupils narrowed. He'd seen something. The giant roadside billboard ahead was shuddering.
A metallic creak echoed through the street.
The advertising board collapsed—metal wires slamming into the road, sparking.
From the rightmost lane, a timber transport truck swerved violently.
The iron chains snapped.
Massive logs rolled off the back of the truck with terrifying force, bouncing along the pavement with deep, chest-thumping thuds.
Vodka flinched, nearly slamming the brakes.
But Hayashi's emotionless countdown pressed on:
Vodka gritted his teeth, knuckles tight on the wheel, and floored it.
Gin, still silent, held onto the handle above the door. His mind was laser-focused. In the chaos, a log narrowly missed his door—slamming into the SUV beside them with an ear-splitting CRACK.
The log exploded through the windshield, slicing through the cab, and turned the driver and passenger into a burst of crimson mist.
One SUV was shredded.
And that was only the beginning.
Behind them, panic spread.
Vehicles swerved, flipped, and collided trying to dodge the oncoming barrage of massive timber.
One car attempted to lane-split, but a rogue log slammed into its wheelbase, launching it into the air like a kicked toy.
Another car braked hard, but it was too late—the collision with a rolling log caused it to somersault, smashing into two others before bursting into flame.
Motorcyclists tried to weave between the wreckage—one lost balance, was flung from his bike, and his skull cracked open on impact with another fallen rider's wreckage.
Screams, explosions, and twisted metal filled the air. Flames erupted behind them like hell had cracked open on the highway.
One of the overturned vehicles' fuel tanks burst—ignited by friction sparks.
The fireball lit up the sky.
And from behind it, more explosions followed. Fuel lines ruptured. Cars cooked. Tires popped and fenders soared through the flames like shrapnel.
Inside the Hummer, the passengers braced for the shockwave. They were over 200 meters away—but still, the blast rocked their vehicle, the concussion shaking the windows.
"T-that was the tanker... right?" Tequila's voice cracked.
Hayashi Yoshiki lowered his watch slowly.
His black eyes remained utterly still.
"Are you still not leaving?" he said calmly. "No one's catching up after this."
There was a long silence.
Chianti's voice crackled through the comms. "Roger! That…"
Hayashi turned, and extended the pistol from earlier across the console.
"Mr. Vodka," he said. "Here's your gun back."