Chapter 10 - The Blind Exchange
The deafening rattle of automatic gunfire chewed through the corrugated metal siding of the warehouse, sending a storm of razor-sharp shrapnel raining down around us.
"Take cover!" Lawson screamed, her voice cutting through the din as she slammed into my shoulder, driving both of us hard behind a thick, reinforced concrete pillar.
Sparks flew from the concrete as rounds slammed into our cover, sizzling with lethal energy. In the pitch-black darkness, tactical flashlights clicked on simultaneously, casting wild, erratic beams of white light across the cavernous interior. Dust and cordite filled the air, making it hard to breathe.
"We've got active shooters on the upper gantry cranes!" Marcus Vance yelled over the comms, his voice laced with adrenaline from the rear security perimeter. "They're pinning us down! We can't advance!"
I pressed my back against the cool concrete pillar, my heart hammering against my ribs, my injured right hand throbbing fiercely beneath the bandages. I flicked on my weapon-mounted flashlight, its narrow beam cutting through the swirling haze of gunsmoke.
"Vance!" I shouted into the darkness, straining my ears to listen over the ringing in my ears.
"Right here, Agent Brooks," his voice echoed—not from the center of the room, but from somewhere near the high-ceilinged loading dock toward the rear exit.
I inched around the edge of the concrete pillar, raising my Glock. In the flickering sweep of a distant flashlight beam, I caught a glimpse of Viktor Vance moving swiftly toward a waiting speed-boat idling in the open slip at the back of the dry dock, its engine roaring with a deep, throaty rumble.
"He's making for the water!" I yelled to Lawson. "Cover me!"
Without waiting for a response, I broke cover, sprinting across the open concrete floor toward the loading dock. Bullets ricocheted off the metal deck plates around my boots, whining shrilly into the night air.
Vance leaped aboard the sleek black hull of the speedboat, turning to face me just as the boat's pilot slammed the throttles forward. The craft surged violently backward, kicking up a massive wall of churning white foam and saltwater that soaked my tactical gear.
In Vance's hand, he held a small, black titanium encryption drive—the exact drive containing the stolen deep-cover operative dossiers.
"You're too late, Maya!" Vance shouted over the roar of the twin outboard engines, a cold, mocking smile playing across his lips as the boat spun around toward the open bay. "The buyer is already in international waters. And the file transfer is already verified."
I didn't hesitate. I raised my Glock, ignoring the searing pain shooting up my charred arm, aligned my front sight dead center on the boat's steering console, and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang!
The muzzle flash cut through the darkness. One of my rounds shattered the boat's GPS navigation screen, sending a shower of glass shards over Vance's shoulder. But the boat didn't slow down; it surged forward into the black expanse of the bay, disappearing into the heavy sea fog within seconds.
I lowered my smoking weapon, my chest heaving, listening to the fading roar of the engines die away into the empty night.
Footsteps crunched heavily on the gravel behind me as Lawson and Marcus jogged up, panting heavily.
"Did you hit him?" Lawson asked, shining her flashlight across the empty water.
"No," I said, my voice cold and hard as I stared out into the dark fog where the speedboat had vanished. I lowered my weapon, my mind racing as I realized the horrifying truth of what Vance had just said.
The buyer was already in international waters. And the transfer was verified.
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Marcus’s secure comms unit beeped sharply in the silence. He pulled the device up to his ear, listening for a long, agonizing moment as his face turned entirely gray. He lowered the radio slowly, looking at me with dead eyes.
"That wasn't a diversion," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling. "The buyer wasn't a cartel boss or a foreign intelligence operative. Naval Intelligence just flagged a high-priority satellite ping originating from a ghost vessel twenty miles off the coast... registered directly to a black-ops division of our own Department of Defense."
