Chapter 97 The War At Whitaker Industries

• The world tilted in a blur of headlights and screeching tires. Clara barely had time to register the roaring engine before a strong arm yanked her backward, sending her crashing into the pavement. The black sedan missed her by inches, its tires skidding as it tore down the street, disappearing into the night.
• Her breath came in sharp gasps. The scent of burnt rubber and asphalt filled her lungs. A firm grip steadied her, and she turned to see Bernard crouching beside her, his face tight with anger.
• “That wasn’t a warning,” he muttered. “That was an execution.”