Chapter 6 - The Federal Shadow
The smoking barrel of Evelyn’s shotgun stayed leveled at the floor, but her piercing blue eyes never left Damon’s face.
“Five minutes?” Damon repeated, the words dropping like lead weights into the heavy, smoke-choked air of the library. He didn't blink, didn't flinch. The realization of how deeply the trap had been sprung didn't cause panic; it honed his focus into a razor-sharp edge. “Whose signature is on the warrant, Evelyn? Who at DOJ has enough clearance to mobilize a strike force under a false flag?”
“Director Harrison,” Evelyn said quietly, stepping closer so the tactical operators on the floor wouldn't catch her words. “He’s been on the Delgato payroll for five years, Damon. When you started scrubbing the syndicate clean and turning real estate legitimate, Harrison realized you were going to leave him with nowhere to hide. This isn't a bust. It’s an execution disguised as an arrest warrant.”
Before Damon could answer, the heavy crunch of armored vehicles rolling over the outer gravel courtyard echoed through the broken windows. Floodlights—brighter and harsher than the ones the corrupt strike force had killed earlier—blazed across the front portico, painting the white marble pillars in stark, clinical white.
“Damon Reyes! This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation! Drop your weapons and step out onto the portico with your hands visible!” a bullhorn boomed from outside, the electronic distortion rattling the shattered glass in the bookcases.
“They’re early,” Evelyn hissed, her jaw tightening. “Harrison must have accelerated the timeline the moment he saw our asset team go dark.”
Damon looked down at the unconscious operators on the floor, then back at Evelyn. Six years ago, they had stood on opposite sides of a courtroom, two professionals whose mutual respect had nearly destroyed both of their careers. Now, they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the ruins of his home, surrounded by enemies in both the underworld and the highest tiers of the government.
“If we walk out that front door, we don't make it to a holding cell,” Damon said, his voice deadly calm. He reached down, unhooked a spare communications headset from an unconscious operator’s vest, and shoved it into his ear. “Marco!”
Static hissed through the earpiece for a fraction of a second before his cousin’s strained voice came back. “Damon! Thank God—we heard the bullhorns. The panic room is sealed, but they’re planting breaching charges on the library exterior wall!”
“Forget the panic room, Marco,” Damon ordered, his eyes locked on Evelyn. “Where is the emergency tunnel ledger? The one leading to the drainage culvert south of the property?”
“Underneath the executive desk. But Damon, the main gate is completely locked down by armored transport. There’s no way out by vehicle.”
“We aren't driving,” Damon said, pulling his Glock 19 back into his grip and sliding a fresh magazine home. He looked at Evelyn. “Can your federal credentials buy us thirty seconds before Harrison’s boys blow the exterior wall?”
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Evelyn offered a grim, humorless smile, sliding a pistol from her thigh holster and cocking the slide with a sharp, lethal snap. “My credentials expired when I went rogue to warn you, Damon. But I brought a flash drive containing every internal audit of Harrison’s offshore accounts. Shall we go introduce ourselves?”
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