Chapter 60 - The Gathering Storm
"Roanoke command! Safehouse Bravo, acknowledge!" Marcus yelled, his voice cracking into panic, hitting the transmit switch repeatedly.
Nothing. Just the low, indifferent hiss of atmospheric interference.
"We have to go. NOW!" I shouted, grabbing Marcus by the shoulder, dragging him toward the door of the command bus.
"David, wait! If Bravo went dark, Harlan’s strike team is already on site!" Marcus pulled out his personal satellite phone, dialing the direct frequency of the Roanoke field office. "Captain Reynolds! Mobilize the regional SWAT immediately! Address is 414 Old Mill Road, Roanoke! Primary VIP is compromised! Move!"
The drive south through the howling sleet storm was a blur of terror and adrenaline. Marcus drove the remaining tactical SUV with reckless speed, the tires hydroplaning over sheets of ice as the speedometer edged past eighty miles per hour on the mountain switchbacks.
In the passenger seat, I checked my weapon, chambering a round with a violent snap of the slide. My hands were perfectly steady now. The fear had burned away entirely, replaced by a pure, lethal resolve.
Harlan could have the money. He could burn the entire Vance empire to the ground. He could wipe his names from the ledgers of history. But if he touched a single hair on Emma’s head, there was no corner of this earth dark enough to keep him safe from me.
"Ten minutes out," Marcus said, his knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel. "State police just arrived on scene. They reported multiple casualties at the gate."
My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth would shatter. "Is Emma inside?"
"They breached the main safehouse door five minutes ago," Marcus relayed, listening to the tactical earpiece. "The two federal marshals... they were neutralized at the front threshold. Suppressed fire. High-caliber."
"And Emma?" My voice was barely a growl.
"The panic room on the lower level was opened from the outside using an emergency override code," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling with dread. "The room is empty, David."
"The override code," I breathed, the pieces falling together with sickening precision. "Who had the override code to a federal marshals' safehouse, Marcus?"
Marcus slowly turned his head to look at me, the dashboard lights painting his face in deep, shadowed contours.
"Only three people in the Department of Justice had access to that site’s structural blueprints," Marcus whispered. "The regional director... the chief marshal..."
"And who else, Marcus?"
Marcus swallowed hard, his voice barely audible over the roaring engine.
May you like
"Deputy Director Miller. The Sheriff's uncle."
---
