Chapter 10 - The Crosshairs of Route 4
The concussion wave threw us backward against the concrete wall, the acrid stench of C4 explosive filling the cramped distribution room in a thick, choking cloud of grey smoke.
Through the billow of soot, two heavy-set figures in matte-black tactical armor stepped through the shattered remains of the doorway, their assault rifles raised and locked directly onto our chests.
“Hands behind your heads! On your knees, now!” the lead mercenary bellowed, his voice distorted through a tactical communications mask.
Agent Vance moved with terrifying speed. Instead of dropping to his knees, he lunged forward, sweeping the lead operative’s legs out from under him while simultaneously drawing his sidearm and firing a single, precise round into the second mercenary’s shoulder plate.
The second operative staggered backward into the metal doorframe, dropping his rifle with a sharp clatter.
“Run! Go!” Vance yelled, pinning the first operative to the floor as a brutal hand-to-hand struggle erupted in the narrow space.
Judge Carter didn’t hesitate. She grabbed my arm, pulling me past the wrestling bodies and out through the smoking wreckage of the doorway into the open subway maintenance tunnel.
“To the surface! Now!” she shouted, pointing toward an emergency spiral staircase leading up to street level.
We scrambled up the spiral steps as fast as our legs could carry us, the sound of shouting voices and distant sirens fading beneath us until we burst through a heavy street-level hatch into the freezing midnight rain.
The air outside was crisp, stinging our lungs as we emerged onto an empty side street just two blocks from where my car was parked.
“Elena, your car!” Judge Carter pointed toward a silver sedan parked beneath a flickering streetlamp.
We sprinted across the wet asphalt, my fingers fumbling in my coat pocket for the key fob. I hit the unlock button with a sharp chirp, yanked open the driver’s door, and threw myself behind the wheel while Judge Carter dived into the passenger seat.
I slammed the key into the ignition, twisted it hard, and the engine roared to life with a comforting, steady hum.
“Route 4,” I said, slamming my foot onto the gas pedal as the car lurched forward into the rainy night. “That’s where Sterling’s relay is. That’s where we end this.”
“Wait, Elena—look at your windshield,” Judge Carter gasped, grabbing my arm.
I slammed on the brakes, the tires skidding across the wet pavement.
Wiped across the driver-side windshield in fresh, dripping red paint was a single, terrifying coordinate:
45.8921° N, 73.5532° W — The exact coordinates of my parents' house.
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And flashing on the center console screen of my car was an incoming live video feed from the front porch security camera at my parents' address.
The screen flickered to life, showing three armed men in black tactical gear kicking my parents' front door wide open—while standing right behind them, holding a silver pocket watch and smiling directly into the camera lens, was Arthur Sterling.
