Chapter 4 - The 4th Street Siege
The 4th Street industrial district was a wasteland of rusted corrugated steel, rotting wooden piers, and cracked concrete. Rain was falling in heavy, vertical sheets now, drumming furiously against the roof of my truck as I pulled into the dark alley behind Warehouse 12.
The sprawling brick building belonged to Vance Riverfront Logistics.
Four black SUVs were parked near the loading dock, their engines idling, exhaust fumes rising into the freezing night air. Through the high, rain-streaked windows of the upper office floor, I could see bright halogen lights shining down on three men moving heavy stacks of paper into an industrial shredder.
Julian Vance was clearing his tracks before the federal prosecutors could execute their warrants.
I checked my weapon. One magazine in the gun, three spare twenty-round magazines in my vest.
I didn't call for backup. I didn't wait for Federal Prosecutor Marcus Vance to answer the text message I had sent him ten minutes ago containing a copy of Sophia’s drive files.
If I gave Vance time to react, his corrupt cops inside St. Matthew’s would kill Sophia before the first siren even turned down 4th Street.
I had to strike the head of the snake first.
I slipped out of the truck, staying low behind the line of rusted shipping containers that lined the perimeter fence.
Two guards in dark raincoats were pacing back and forth near the loading dock ramp, holding short-barreled shotguns. They were smoking cigarettes, their attention focused on the main street entrance.
I crept up behind the first guard, slipping my left arm around his windpipe while my right hand forced his head sideways.
CRACK.
He went limp instantly. I caught his shotgun before it hit the metal floor, lowering his body silently behind a stack of wooden pallets.
The second guard turned his head toward the shadow. "Hey, Tommy? You get that lighter?"
I stepped out from behind the pallets, bringing the butt of the captured shotgun across his jaw with brutal, blinding force!
He collapsed onto the concrete, unconscious before his head even hit the floor.
I stepped through the side access door into the vast, echoing interior of the warehouse.
The smell of motor oil, damp cardboard, and diesel fuel filled the air. High above the main storage floor, accessible by a steel catwalk, sat the glass-walled executive office.
Through the glass, I saw Julian Vance.
He was fifty-five years old, wearing a expensive charcoal suit, holding a glass of amber scotch in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Standing beside him was a tall, muscular man with a shaved head and a deep scar running down his cheek—Miller. The man who had broken down my front door three nights ago.
I climbed the metal spiral staircase leading to the catwalk, my boots making no sound against the steel treads.
Inside the office, Vance was shouting into his phone.
"I don't care about her father!" Vance barked, his voice carrying clearly through the cracked transom window above the office door. "If Richard doesn't show up with that drive in five minutes, tell Dr. Evans to inject the air into her IV line! Make it look like a pulmonary embolism!"
My blood turned to pure, boiling liquid fire.
I stepped up to the reinforced glass office door, raised my heavy combat boot, and kicked the lock mechanism straight through the frame!
BOOM!
The heavy oak door flew open, slamming violently against the interior wall!
Vance dropped his scotch glass, the amber liquid spraying across his polished mahogany desk. Miller reacted instantly, reaching for a nickel-plated pistol holstered beneath his left arm.
I fired two suppressed rounds into Miller’s right shoulder before his weapon could clear his holster!
THWIP! THWIP!
Miller let out a guttural roar of pain, his gun clattering onto the Persian rug as he crashed backward into a glass display case!
Julian Vance backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, his face draining of every single drop of color as he looked into my eyes.
"Ethan..." Vance stammered, his hands raised in front of his chest, his voice trembling with a terrifying, sudden realization. "Ethan... listen to me... we can make a deal—"
I crossed the room in three massive strides, grabbing Councilman Vance by his silk necktie, and slammed his head downward into the solid mahogany desk!
CRACK!
Blood sprayed across his white collared shirt as he let out a choked scream.
I grabbed him by the throat, hoisting his six-foot frame off the floor, and slammed him against the glass window behind his desk! The thick glass groaned under the impact, spiderweb cracks spreading outward from his shoulders.
"Call your doctor at the hospital," I whispered into his ear, my voice so cold it sounded like grinding ice. "Call him right now on speakerphone, or I throw you through this window into the river sixty feet below."
Vance gasped for air, his hands clutching frantically at my wrists. "Okay! Okay! Don't shoot! Don't push!"
He fumbled with his cell phone with bloody, trembling fingers, pressing the top speed-dial entry and hitting the speaker button.
The line clicked open after two rings.
"Councilman?" a cold, clinical voice answered. "Is it done? Am I clear to administer the IV?"
"NO!" Vance screamed into the phone, his eyes wide with absolute horror as he looked at the suppressed barrel of my pistol pressed against his forehead. "NO, DR. EVANS! STAND DOWN! LEAVE THE ICU IMMEDIATELY! DO NOT TOUCH THE GIRL!"
A long pause hung over the speaker.
"Are you sure, Councilman?" the doctor asked, sounding confused. "Richard Carter is standing outside her door right now with two hospital security officers—"
"I SAID LEAVE HER ALONE, YOU IDIOT!" Vance shrieked. "GET OUT OF THE BUILDING NOW!"
"Understood," the doctor said, and the line went dead.
I took a slow, deep breath, feeling the crushing weight that had been sitting on my chest for twelve hours finally begin to lift.
Sophia was safe.
I pulled Vance away from the window, tossing him like a ragdoll onto the floor beside his bleeding enforcer.
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Far below, echoing through the rainy night outside the warehouse, came the wail of dozens of police sirens—federal vehicles and state trooper cruisers flooding down 4th Street with their red and blue lights flashing against the wet brick walls.
Marcus Vance had arrived.
