John Foster stepped out of the factory's main entrance into the crisp November air. The BMW M3 sat in his reserved parking space, its Tanzanite Blue Metallic paint gleaming under the Texas sun. Not the vehicle most people expected a factory owner to drive, but John had always preferred precision engineering to luxury.
He slid into the driver's seat, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and carbon fiber trim. His finger pressed the ignition button, but instead of the satisfying growl of the inline-six engine, the dashboard lit up with a cryptic error message: "DRIVETRAIN MALFUNCTION."
"What the hell?" John muttered, staring at the red warning. Twenty years of working with machinery had taught him one thing—unexplained errors rarely fixed themselves.
He pressed the button again, this time holding it slightly longer. The dashboard cleared and the engine roared to life, all 473 horses under the hood eager to run.
"German temperament," John said to the car, a habit he'd never bothered to break. He backed out of the space, then shifted into drive and accelerated harder than necessary, the rear wheels momentarily breaking traction before the electronic stability control intervened.
The entrance ramp to I-35E southbound appeared ahead. John merged into traffic, the M3 slipping between a semi-truck and a minivan with surgical precision. The heads-up display showed 78 mph—modest for the capability of the car, but enough to trigger unwanted attention from highway patrol.
John tapped the display on the dashboard, opening the Waze app. The screen showed clear roads ahead with no reported police presence. He pressed the accelerator a little deeper, watching the speedometer climb to 85, then 90. The car felt like an extension of his body, responding to the slightest input with immediate effect—exactly why he'd chosen it over the Mercedes-AMG his oldest son had recommended.
Twelve minutes later, he exited the highway, downshifting as he navigated the ramp. Downtown Dallas spread before him, glass towers reflecting sunlight like a field of crystals. Traffic thinned as he approached Dealey Plaza, where history had pivoted on that November day in 1963. The Sixth Floor Museum occupied the building formerly known as the Texas School Book Depository, from which Lee Harvey Oswald had allegedly fired the shots that killed President Kennedy.
John had lived in Dallas all his life but had never bothered to visit the museum. History interested him primarily as a series of engineering problems solved or failed; the past was useful only as instruction for the future. But Chris was fascinated by conspiracy theories and historical controversies, and had suggested lunch at the small upscale restaurant adjacent to the plaza after a quick tour. John knew he’d probably spent the entire morning in the museum.
As he turned onto Elm Street, his phone rang through the car's speakers. The display showed Chris Stannish’s name.
"I'm almost there," John answered, skipping the greeting.
"Don't come this way," Chris's voice was tight, urgent. "There's some kind of anti-deportation protest blocking the plaza. It's getting ugly."
John slowed the BMW, looking ahead. "How bad could it—"
His question died in his throat as he rounded the corner and saw the scene unfolding before him. What might have begun as an organized protest had devolved into chaos. Dozens of figures dressed in black, many with faces obscured by balaclavas, surged through the street. Signs with political slogans had become improvised weapons, some being used to smash storefront windows.
"Jesus help me,” John whispered, instinctively pressing the brake pedal. The M3 slowed rapidly, its carbon-ceramic brakes gripping with excessive force in his moment of shock.
"John? Are you seeing this?" Chris's voice came through the speakers.
"I've got to get out of here," John said, scanning for an escape route. The street ahead was completely blocked by the mob, which was now turning its attention to vehicles caught in their path.
He threw the transmission into reverse, but before he could accelerate, a sickening crunch of metal and the violent jolt of impact told him another vehicle had collided with his rear end. The impact pushed the M3 forward several feet, toward the advancing crowd.
"What was that? John?" Chris's voice sounded small and distant now as adrenaline narrowed John's focus.
Through the rearview mirror, John glimpsed a pickup truck behind him, its driver looking as panicked as John felt. There would be no retreat in that direction.
The first of the protesters reached his car, a masked figure in black tactical gear slamming a gloved fist against the hood. Others quickly surrounded the vehicle, their faces hidden behind masks, revealing only hate-filled eyes.
John pressed the lock button as a reflex, though the car was already locked. He watched in horror as one protester swung what looked like a bike lock, shattering the rear passenger window with a spray of safety glass. A black-clad arm reached through the broken window, fumbling for the interior door handle, and then a masked head.
Instinct took over. John twisted in his seat, seatbelt cutting into his chest as he swung his right arm backward with all the force he could muster. His fist connected with something soft beneath the mask. A high-pitched shriek erupted from the intruder, whose mask had partially dislodged, revealing unmistakably feminine features.
"Get out of my car!" John shouted, surprised by the realization he was attacking a woman, but too deep in survival mode to process it further.
The situation deteriorated in seconds. More hands pounded at the windows, the vehicle rocking as someone climbed onto the hood. The BMW's alarm began wailing inexplicably, adding to the cacophony of shouts and breaking glass.
With trembling fingers, John reached for the center console, popping it open to reveal the Glock 19 he kept there. The weight of the pistol in his hand steadied him momentarily. He'd spent countless hours at the range with this weapon, but never imagined needing it like this.
Through the windshield, he saw a masked face staring back at him, the figure now trying to smash through the safety glass with what looked like a hammer. John raised the Glock, aiming center mass as he'd been taught.
"Back off!" he shouted, though the words were lost in the chaos.
His finger tensed on the trigger just as another vehicle—a delivery van trying to escape the riot—sideswiped the BMW with enough force to rock it violently. The shot went wide as the driver's window exploded, showering John with glass fragments that stung his face and neck.
Before he could recover, multiple hands reached through the shattered window, grabbing at his clothes, his arms, the gun. The Glock discharged once more into the roof of the car before being torn from his grasp.
John felt himself being pulled through the window opening, the seatbelt cutting into his neck until someone reached in and released the buckle. The rough pavement scraped his back as they dragged him from the vehicle. His head struck the ground, sending stars across his vision.
The last thing John saw clearly was his pistol skittering across the asphalt, kicked away by a black boot. Then the crowd closed in, and the world became a kaleidoscope of fists, boots, and screams—some of which, he dimly realized, were his own.
