Chapter 42 - The Ghost Hunt
The hunt for David Vance took us deep into the industrial underbelly of a neighboring rust-belt city, far outside Ashport’s jurisdiction, where abandoned steel mills and toxic chemical plants provided endless mazes of concrete shadows and rusting iron.
Our convoy of three matte-black SUVs rolled silently through the deserted rail yards at 2:00 AM, our tactical lights extinguished, navigating entirely through night-vision optics.
I sat in the passenger seat beside Ronan, my fingers resting on the grip of my Sig Sauer, reviewing thermal imaging scans on a ruggedized military tablet.
“Thermal ping,” I whispered, tapping the screen. “Sub-basement level beneath the old blast furnace building at Sector Seven. Three distinct heat signatures moving near a subterranean sewer discharge pipe.”
Ronan killed our engine, letting our vehicle coast silently into the shadows of a towering rust-streaked crane. He turned his head, looking at me with a stern, immovable expression.
“Thea. You stay in the vehicle with the communications array,” Ronan commanded, his voice brooking zero argument. “This isn't a corporate boardroom audit. This is a wet-work extraction.”
“I’m coming with you, Ronan,” I replied, my voice matching his absolute stubbornness. “David Vance is my past as much as he is yours. My grandfather’s trust, my family’s name—he tried to use them to destroy everything we built. I’m going down into that basement.”
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Ronan stared at me for three long seconds, recognizing the unyielding titanium spine that ran through every member of the Vance bloodline. A faint, proud smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“Stay behind my left shoulder,” Ronan relented, unholstering his suppressed tactical rifle. “If anyone breathes funny, you put them down without hesitation.”
