My grandfather, Samuel Shaw — a veteran of the Federal Intelligence Division — suddenly collapsed and needed to be rushed to the hospital.
We loaded him into the Federal-Grade Armored Medical Transport and merged onto the I-405 Freeway Emergency Lane, but almost immediately a Maybach brazenly drove in the same lane and started blocking us. The Maybach’s driver honked loudly, urging the owner to move. Instead of yielding, the Maybach toyed with us on the shoulder—surging forward, then slamming the brakes.
Our driver couldn’t avoid it. On the Maybach’s nth sudden stop, he rear-ended us.
A pot-bellied man climbed out of the Maybach, swaggering with arrogance. “Who the hell do you think you are, honking that horn non-stop? Do you know whose plate that is?”
I jumped down from the transport, swallowing the anger that wanted to boil out of me. “You cut into the emergency lane during rush hour. This is an ambulance — you should yield immediately.”
The man sneered. “Ha! Go find out whose plate that is. In Los Angeles, no one dares to make way for a car from the Neal Corporation. Not a single soul.” He smirked as if he owned the freeway. “Listen: it’s not just the emergency lane. I could drive my car straight through your living room if I wanted.”
I didn’t want to waste time arguing — Samuel’s condition was the only thing on my mind — so I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for the police chief at LAPD Headquarters.
“Is it true that a car from Shaw Holdings can be driven right into my family’s living room?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay even.
My grandfather’s situation was delicate and he’d always been discreet about his past. If it weren’t for the danger to his life, I wouldn’t have bothered making that call.
When the man realized I’d hung up, he laughed out loud. “Looks like you’re a country bumpkin from out of town — first time in Los Angeles, huh? Calling the cops now?”
“I’m Frank Wood, personal driver to the Neal family’s heiress,” he announced, chest puffed. “Who in this city doesn’t know me?”
He kept sneering as if I were invisible. “What backwater are you from, honestly? You don’t even know who we are.” The grin on his face grew wider when I stayed silent. “A nobody dares to go up against the Neals? You really don’t know your place.”
He pointed to the Maybach as if that settled everything. “This car’s a custom from our Miss Neal. You owe us two million — and then you’ll kowtow three times — and we’ll let this slide.”
“Or,” he added with a poisonous smile, “if you make our Miss Neal unhappy, you and that old coot on your transport can both go to hell.”
Frank Wood’s words were ridiculous enough to make me laugh out loud despite myself. Two million? Did he think I was an idiot?
I glanced at Frank Wood’s smug face. “Frank Wood, right? This is broad daylight; our Federal-Grade transport has a dashcam. It recorded everything.”
“You were the one illegally blocking the emergency lane, and then you provoked us. The rear-end happened because you slammed on the brakes on purpose. You’ve even delayed my grandfather’s rescue.”
“If I don’t make you take responsibility, that’ll be generous. You’re trying to extort me? I’ve called the police — let them handle it when they get here.”
Hearing that I’d called the police only fueled Frank. He snorted. “The police? Let them come. If they show up, this won’t be just about money.”
“In Los Angeles, the Neal family runs the sky,” he said, as if that ended the conversation.
Besides the driver and the paramedics, Dr. Leonard Hayes — the renowned physician — was with us on the transport. Even so, my attention never left Samuel’s condition; every second felt like it might be the difference between life and death.
I fixed Frank with a calm look. “I’ll have the officers come to the hospital. If an officer rules that I owe compensation, fine — not just two million; I’ll pay twenty million if it comes to that.”
“You will move this car now. I have to get my grandfather to the hospital.”
Frank laughed like I’d said something charming. He clearly thought I’d been cowed.
