My Milf Conqueror System

Chapter 185: The Convoy Intercept

[Jake’s POV]

The FDR Drive erupted into a chaotic, high-speed war zone.

Bullets hammered against the ballistic windshield of the Durango, leaving deep, spiderweb fractures in the reinforced glass. The deafening roar of automatic gunfire echoed off the concrete barriers, mixing with the terrified screams of civilian drivers slamming on their brakes and swerving to avoid the crossfire.

"Keep us steady!" I yelled over the noise, leaning out the passenger window.

The freezing wind tore at my face, stinging my eyes. My side was screaming in agony, the heavy combat corset digging brutally into my stitched wound with every swerve of the SUV. I ignored the pain, locking my arms against the doorframe to stabilize my aim.

The lead utility van was thirty yards ahead, pacing the federal convoy. The two remaining Blackwood mercenaries in the back of the van were laying down a relentless barrage of suppressing fire, chewing through the rear armor of the federal SUVs.

I lined up the sights of my Glock on the mercenary on the left.

Without the System’s targeting enhancements, the shot was nearly impossible. Firing a handgun from a moving vehicle at seventy miles an hour, aiming at a target in heavy body armor.

I exhaled, letting my natural instincts take over, and squeezed the trigger twice.

The first round sparked off the mercenary’s chest plate. The second round caught him just under the rim of his Kevlar helmet, punching through his throat. He collapsed backward into the dark interior of the van, his rifle clattering onto the asphalt and sparking wildly as it bounced away.

"One down!" I barked, ducking back into the cabin as the surviving mercenary shifted his fire toward us.

A hail of bullets shredded the passenger-side mirror, showering me in razor-sharp fragments of glass and plastic.

"They are trying to disable the feds’ engine blocks!" Darius roared, wrestling with the steering wheel as he dodged a civilian sedan that had spun out in the chaos. "If they stop that convoy, they will slaughter the agents and execute Bancroft!"

"Get me alongside the van!" I ordered, ejecting my spent magazine and slamming a fresh one into the grip of my Glock.

Darius didn’t hesitate. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, the Durango’s massive engine howling as we surged forward, pulling up parallel to the passenger side of the Blackwood utility van.

The driver of the van looked over, his eyes wide with shock behind his tactical mask. He jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, trying to ram us into the concrete barrier separating the highway from the East River.

Two tons of steel slammed into the side of our Durango.

The impact threw me violently against the door. The combat corset absorbed the brunt of the blow, but the sheer kinetic force sent a blinding, white-hot spike of agony radiating from my stitched wound. I tasted blood, my vision swimming with static.

"Hold the line!" I gasped, fighting through the pain.

Darius gritted his teeth, his massive arms bulging as he fought the steering wheel, holding the Durango steady against the van’s assault. The two vehicles ground against each other at seventy miles an hour, a terrifying shower of orange sparks erupting between the crushed metal doors.

I rolled down the passenger window completely, exposing myself to the freezing wind and the enemy driver.

I raised my Glock, aiming directly at the driver’s side window of the van. The glass was reinforced, but at point-blank range, it wouldn’t hold forever.

I emptied the entire magazine into the center of the window.

The ballistic glass spiderwebbed, frosted over, and finally shattered inward under the relentless barrage. The driver flinched, throwing his arms up to protect his face from the flying glass.

It was the only opening Darius needed.

Darius slammed the brakes, dropping the Durango back a few feet, and then violently jerked the steering wheel to the left, executing a perfect, brutal PIT maneuver. The heavy reinforced bumper of our SUV caught the rear quarter panel of the utility van.

The van lost traction instantly. It spun out of control, the tires screaming against the asphalt, and slammed head-on into the concrete median. The rear doors buckled, and the surviving mercenary in the back was thrown violently onto the highway, tumbling like a ragdoll before lying still.

"Target neutralized," Darius rumbled, accelerating past the smoking wreckage of the van.

Up ahead, the federal convoy was slowing down. The rear SUV had taken too much damage to the engine block, thick black smoke pouring from under the hood. The three vehicles ground to a halt, forming a defensive barricade across the empty lanes of the FDR Drive.

"Nia, status!" I barked into the comms, wincing as I pressed a hand against my side. The corset was holding, but I could feel a warm, terrifying dampness spreading beneath the bandages. I was bleeding again.

"The immediate threat is neutralized," Nia reported, her voice shaking with adrenaline. "But the feds are calling for heavy backup. NYPD SWAT and federal tactical teams are converging on your location. They will be there in less than three minutes."

"We need to confirm Bancroft is alive," I said, looking at the stopped convoy.

"The feds will shoot us on sight," Darius warned, slowing the Durango to a crawl fifty yards behind the barricaded SUVs. "We are in an unmarked vehicle, heavily armed, at the scene of a major firefight. They will assume we are part of the hit squad."

"I’m not leaving until I know Isabella failed," I said stubbornly.

I opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the highway.

The cold air hit me like a physical blow, but it helped clear the agonizing fog of pain in my head. I kept my hands raised, my weapon holstered, and walked slowly toward the federal convoy.

"Stop right there!" a voice roared over a bullhorn.

Federal agents were crouched behind the open doors of their armored SUVs, their assault rifles trained directly on my chest. They looked terrified, their suits covered in glass dust, their adrenaline red-lining.

"I am unarmed!" I shouted back, keeping my hands high. "I’m the one who just ran the hit squad into the wall! Check your center vehicle! Is the prisoner alive?"

The lead agent, a hard-faced man with a bleeding cut on his forehead, hesitated. He glanced back at the center SUV. The doors were locked, the tinted windows intact.

"The prisoner is secure!" the agent shouted back, his rifle still leveled at me. "Get on the ground! Now! Hands behind your head!"

I didn’t get on the ground. I had my confirmation. Charles Bancroft was alive. Isabella’s trap had failed.

I took a slow step backward, my eyes locked on the federal agents.

"Tell Isabella Vane she missed," I said, my voice carrying over the howling wind.

I turned and walked back to the Durango, ignoring the agents screaming at me to stop. They didn’t fire. They were too disoriented, too focused on protecting their asset, to engage a man who had just saved their lives.

I climbed back into the passenger seat, slamming the heavy ballistic door shut.

"Drive," I told Darius, my voice tight with pain. "Get us out of here before SWAT arrives."

Darius threw the Durango into reverse, executing a flawless J-turn on the empty highway, and accelerated back down the FDR Drive, disappearing into the chaotic, neon-lit labyrinth of Manhattan.

I slumped back against the leather seat, closing my eyes. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only the raw, suffocating agony of my torn stitches.

"Jake, are you okay?" Claire’s voice crackled over the comms, thick with panic.

"I’m bleeding," I admitted softly, pressing my hand against the wet, sticky fabric of my sweater. "But Bancroft is alive. Isabella’s digital fragments are still in play."

"Get back to the tower," Sofia ordered, her voice cold and absolute. "We won the battle. Now we prepare for the war."

I kept my hand pressed against my side, listening to the roar of the Durango’s engine. The physical toll was immense. The System was silent. I was fighting this war as a mortal man.

But as I looked out at the glittering skyline of my city, I knew one thing for certain.

Isabella Vane had brought her army to my home. She had crossed the Atlantic, hired the deadliest mercenaries money could buy, and turned the streets of Manhattan into a war zone. She thought she could break me. She thought the loss of my System skills and a sniper bullet to the abdomen would force me to surrender. But as I watched the neon lights of the city blur past the reinforced windows of the Durango, I felt a cold, absolute certainty settle over me. The corporate games were over. The shadow war had escalated into a global blood feud. Isabella Vane had made the greatest mistake of her life. She had brought a mercenary army to my city, and I was going to bury every single one of them.