Chapter 9 - The Grey Overcoat
The man in the grey overcoat didn't look like a common thug. He had the clean-cut, silver-templed look of a senior corporate vice president or a retired government attaché who spent his weekends playing golf with senators.
He closed the sedan door slowly, resting his hand casually on the roof of the car as Rook and I stepped out from behind a rusting boxcar twenty feet away.
“Mr. Mercer, I presume,” the man said, his voice smooth, cultured, and entirely devoid of warmth. “I must admit, your persistence is quite impressive. Most men of your... background would have taken the hint when their garage burned to the ground.”
“Where are the kids?” Rook demanded, his deep voice cutting through the damp morning air like a buzzsaw. He kept his hands loose and low near his holster, his massive frame coiled for a strike.
The man in the grey overcoat smiled, lifting the medical monitor slightly so the glowing screen was visible in the dim light.
“The children are safely tucked away in a secure medical transport van five miles from here,” he replied smoothly. “Their heart monitors are linked directly to this telemetry unit via satellite relay. If I press this red button, or if my security detail doesn't check in with headquarters by six-thirty a.m., the sedative infusion pump in their transport increases tenfold. They simply go to sleep, Mr. Mercer. Permanently.”
Dr. Whitaker let out a muffled, angry shout from inside the sedan, thrashing against his restraints, but the tinted glass muffled his voice into an indistinct hum.
“You’re dealing with sick children, you coward,” I stepped forward, my hands clenched into fists.
“I’m dealing with a security leak that threatens a multi-billion-dollar defense logistics contract,” the man corrected coldly. He stepped away from the car, opening his briefcase on the hood. “Now. Arthur Bennett thought he could steal the master ledger and trade it to federal investigators. He was wrong. You recovered the server unit, and now you’re going to hand it over, along with the microfilm records your club holds.”
Rook didn't move. He stood statue-still in the center of the railway tracks, the wind whipping the edges of his pale leather cut against his thighs.
“And if I give you the ledger,” Rook said slowly, “you walk away and let the kids go?”
“You have my word,” the man lied with chilling ease.
Rook reached slowly into his inner jacket pocket. For a fraction of a second, the man in the grey overcoat tightened his grip on the telemetry monitor, his eyes narrowing in anticipation of victory.
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Instead of a hard drive or a memory stick, Rook pulled out a heavy, forged-steel wrench and hurled it with terrifying, bullet-like speed straight at the sedan’s windshield.
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