Chapter 6 - The Trap at Fourth Street
The rain hammered a relentless, deafening rhythm against the reinforced roof of the Maybach as Gabriel navigated the dark, industrial avenues toward the abandoned rail yard on Fourth Street.
I sat rigidly in the passenger seat, my fingers tightly interlaced in my lap, watching the blurred neon lights of the city streak past. My knuckles were stark white, and every breath I drew sent a dull, throbbing reminder of the bruises hidden beneath my clothes. Yet, for the first time in three years, the terror constricting my chest wasn't entirely made of helplessness.
Ahead of us, secured safely in an armored support vehicle trailing two car lengths back, was Noah. Vance had patched him through on an encrypted radio channel ten minutes ago, letting me hear my little brother’s voice—shaky, tired, but entirely safe. He was wrapped in a thermal blanket, eating a warm sandwich Vance had provided, completely shielded from the nightmare swirling around us.
"He's going to be waiting there," I murmured, staring out the rain-streaked window at the towering brick skeletons of abandoned warehouses. "Derek doesn't leave loose ends. If he realizes we aren't coming with the ledger, if he figures out Vance intercepted Noah..."
"He won't have time to figure out anything," Gabriel replied, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly cold. He kept his eyes locked on the dark ribbon of asphalt ahead, one hand resting effortlessly on the leather-wrapped steering wheel while the other hovered near his jacket pocket where the black envelope rested. "Derek Lawson spent years hiding behind a badge, using intimidation to rule his own home because he knew he was a coward in the real world. Tonight, that shield is gone."
We turned down a narrow, unpaved access road marked by rusted chain-link fences and overgrown weeds. Through the cascading sheets of rain, the skeletal frame of the old Fourth Street rail yard loomed like a concrete graveyard.
Parked directly beneath the flickering sodium glow of a broken overhead streetlamp was Derek’s unmarked police cruiser. Its hazard lights blinked in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, casting amber flashes against the peeling paint of a rusted cargo container.
Gabriel killed the Maybach’s headlights a hundred yards back, gliding the heavy vehicle into the deep shadows behind a dilapidated loading dock.
"Stay in the car, Harper," Gabriel commanded, putting the transmission in park and reaching inside his suit jacket to check the weight of his sidearm.
"No," I said, my voice dropping into a tone that surprised even me. I unbuckled my seatbelt before he could argue. "He's my husband. He's my nightmare to face. I'm not sitting in a dark car while you walk into his crosshairs."
Gabriel turned his head, his gray eyes searching my face in the dim dashboard illumination. For a second, I thought he would push the issue, order me to stay back, and treat me like a fragile victim. Instead, a slow, grim nod crossed his features.
"Stay behind my right shoulder," he instructed quietly. "If I tell you to run, you run. Do you understand?"
May you like
"I understand."
We slipped out into the freezing downpour. The wind cut through my thin uniform shirt like a knife, but the icy shock of the rain only sharpened my focus.
