Chapter 8 - Darkness on the Pier
The sudden blackout swallowed the cavernous warehouse whole, replacing the harsh daylight with an oppressive, ink-black gloom.
“Stay down!” Lincoln’s voice roared through the dark, instantly followed by the sharp, metallic click of a firearm slide being racked.
Before I could even blink, a heavy hand gripped my arm, yanking me violently behind a towering stack of wooden crates just as a deafening roar split the air.
Bang! Bang!
Sparks showered down from the metal rafters as a hail of gunfire chewed through the corrugated ceiling. The smell of cordite and burning dust instantly saturated the damp air.
“Bruno! Status!” Lincoln shouted over the chaos, one arm shielding my head while his other hand held his weapon steady toward the center aisle. getQueryresult: ''
“Someone tripped the external breaker from the main terminal outside!” Bruno’s voice barked back through the din, punctuated by the heavy return fire of his submachine gun from the catwalk. “They’re trying to cover an extraction!”
I pressed my back hard against the rough wooden slats of the crate, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. In the absolute dark, every sense heightened—the drip of saltwater from the pier floorboards, the acrid taste of gunpowder, and the heavy, reassuring heat of Lincoln’s shoulder pressed firmly against mine.
“Garrett!” Lincoln yelled into the dark.
No answer. Only the rhythmic clicking of empty shell casings hitting the concrete floor somewhere in the middle aisle.
“He’s using the confusion to bolt toward the rear loading bay,” I whispered quickly, my legal and tactical instincts overriding the terror. “When the power cut, he knew where the manual override latch was on the side exit.”
Lincoln looked down at me through the shadows, his pale gray eyes reflecting the faint, flickering amber glow of an emergency exit sign fifty feet away. “Stay here. Do not move.”
“Like hell I’m staying here,” I hissed, reaching into my coat pocket and gripping the heavy steel flashlight I had grabbed from the sedan. “I’m the one who audited his files. I know his pacing.”
Before Lincoln could stop me, I flicked the heavy flashlight on, sweeping the blinding beam across the center aisle.
The harsh white light caught Garrett sprinting flat-out toward the sliding side exit, his coat billowing behind him. He threw his arm up to block the glare, cursing loudly.
In the same fraction of a second, Lincoln moved with terrifying, predatory speed. He cleared the distance between the crates in three long strides, tackling Garrett hard against the metal door.
A sickening thud echoed as Garrett hit the steel, his pistol clattering across the concrete and sliding into the shadows.
“Game over, Garrett,” Lincoln growled, pressing his forearm mercilessly against Garrett’s throat, pinning him to the door.
Garrett choked for air, his face turning purple, but instead of fighting back, a wet, hysterical laugh bubbled up from his throat. He looked past Lincoln, staring straight at me as I walked up with the flashlight beam steady on his face.
“You... you think catching me stops it?” Garrett wheezed, blood trickling from a split lip. “Look out the window, Elena. Look at who’s pulling the strings.”
I frowned, shining the flashlight beam toward the high, grimy wired-glass window beside the loading door.
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Parked outside in the gravel lot, idling quietly in the pouring rain that had suddenly started again, was a sleek black limousine with tinted windows and a familiar, embossed family crest on the door panel.
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