Chapter 4 - The Crossfire
The deafening silence that followed the gunshot felt heavier than any explosion.
My lungs refused to draw air. I dropped flat onto the kitchen floor, pressing my back hard against the lower cabinets, dragging my knees up to my chest. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold Larry’s letter.
A few feet away, Agent Vance lay motionless on the rug, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring up at the ceiling fixture.
Footsteps—heavy, calculated, and deliberate—were climbing the exterior fire escape outside my shattered living room window.
Someone else was out there.
If Vance had found me using federal tracking, whoever had just shot him wasn't law enforcement. They were part of whatever ruthless syndicate Larry had spent the last twelve years running from. And they were coming inside to finish what Vance had started.
I scrambled on my hands and knees across the linoleum floor, creeping toward the hallway closet. I needed a phone. I needed to call 911. But as I reached for my jacket hanging on the hook, my hand brushed against something heavy and metallic tucked inside the pocket.
My fingers wrapped around it.
It was a small, heavy brass key.
Along with the key was a luggage tag bearing a locker number at the central bus station downtown.
The flash drive.
Larry hadn't left it in the apartment. He hadn't hidden it in the subway station. He had given me the key three weeks ago, right before we went to the courthouse, telling me it was just a spare key to his old storage locker where he kept his "few remaining personal belongings."
Another lie. Another piece of the puzzle sliding into place with terrifying precision.
From the living room, a heavy combat boot stepped onto my hardwood floor, crunching over shards of broken window glass.
“Clear,” a gruff, low voice called out to someone behind him.
“Find the girl,” a second voice replied—harsher, colder, dripping with absolute malice. “And check the desk. If Vance didn't get the codes out of her, we have to tear this place apart before local units respond to the shots.”
I crouched lower inside the dark coat closet, pulling the louvered door shut until only a narrow sliver of light remained. My heart was pounding so loudly I was certain they could hear it through the walls.
Through the wooden slats, I watched two men in black tactical gear step into the kitchen. Both carried suppressed automatic rifles, their eyes scanning the blood on the floor near Vance’s body with total indifference.
“Vance moved too fast,” the first one muttered, kicking Vance’s boot aside. “The boss won't be happy.”
“Forget Vance,” the second man snapped, walking directly toward the kitchen counter where Larry’s letter still lay wide open under the harsh overhead light. “Look at this.”
He picked up the first page of Larry’s handwriting, his eyes scanning the lines quickly. A slow, sinister smile spread across his face beneath his black balaclava.
“She has the letter,” he whispered. “And if she has the letter, she knows about the safety deposit box at the terminal.”
The man lowered his rifle, reaching for his comms earpiece.
“Boss, this is Alpha-Two. We found the drop. The wife is in play, and she’s got the key. Send the intercept team to the central bus station immediately. She’s heading there next.”
I froze inside the dark closet, the brass locker key burning a hole in my palm. They didn't know I was still in the apartment. They thought I had already fled.
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And right now, my only chance at survival—and the only way to find out why Larry dragged me into this nightmare—was to slip out the back fire escape while they were distracted and get to that locker before they did.
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