Chapter 12 - Breach of the Brownstone
The atmosphere in the brownstone shifted from intellectual analysis to mortal peril in a fraction of a second.
“How did they find us?” my father whispered, panic flashing across his tired eyes. “We changed cars twice, and your cell phones were powered down before we left the interstate!”
“They didn't track our cell phones,” I said, drawing my Sig Sauer from my shoulder holster with a practiced, silent motion. “They tracked the satellite relay ping Judge Harrison used to contact his security detail when he left the courthouse. These corporate hit squads don't need cell towers; they have passive radio-frequency interceptors mounted on their surveillance vans.”
Judge Harrison didn’t panic. He calmly reached beneath the oak table, popped open a concealed wooden floor panel, and pulled out a heavy-duty tactical shotgun, slamming two 12-gauge shells into the chamber with a sharp, metallic clack.
“Ethan, take the rear service stairwell leading down to the alley,” Judge Harrison commanded, his voice steady as steel. “Emily, secure your father in the interior basement vault behind the boiler room. If they breach the front entrance, we fight them room by room.”
“I’m not hiding in a basement while you and my daughter risk your lives!” my father protested, stepping forward.
“Dad, listen to me!” I grabbed both of his shoulders, looking directly into his eyes. “If they take you, the evidence dies with you. Get in that vault, or all of this was for nothing.”
Before my father could answer, the heavy front door of the brownstone exploded inward in a shower of splintered oak and iron hardware. A deafening flash-bang grenade rolled across the entryway floor, detonating with a blinding white glare and a concussive roar that shook dust and plaster from the ceiling.
“Contact!” Ethan shouted, raising his rifle toward the blown-out doorway as thick white smoke billowed into the hallway.
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Through the billowing smoke, three figures clad in matte-black tactical gear and wearing gas masks rushed across the threshold, their automatic carbines raised and spitting suppressing fire into the living room.
Judge Harrison didn't hesitate. He stepped out from behind the oak table and fired his tactical shotgun. The massive blast caught the lead mercenary square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and crashing him backward through the shattered door frame onto the front steps.
