Chapter 6 - The Iron Gate
Sirens wailed in the distance, cutting through the heavy, swirling snow like a blade as Officer Mercer’s patrol cruiser slid to a halt behind Callum’s town car.
Maeve sat in the back seat of the cruiser, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket Mercer had tossed over her shoulders. Her good hand gripped the fabric so tightly her knuckles shone white. Up front, Callum leaned against the passenger door of his own vehicle, talking quietly with the young cop through the open window.
“You can’t just storm his property, Callum,” Mercer said, his breath pluming white in the freezing midnight air. “Declan has a private security force that makes a municipal police department look like a neighborhood watch. If we cross those gates without a tactical warrant, we’re walking into a massacre.”
“We aren't waiting for a warrant,” Callum replied, his voice flat, stripped of all warmth. “Declan’s men just tried to assassinate my housekeeper and stole four years of my family’s history. By sunrise, he’ll either be answering my questions, or he won't be breathing.”
“And what about me?” Mercer stared down at his steering wheel, his jaw working. “I’m a cop. I cross those gates with you, I’m throwing away my badge, my pension, and probably my life.”
Callum leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto the young officer's face. “You crossed that line the moment you followed my car into this yard, Daniel. You saw the bodies. You saw the shooters. You’re already part of the war.”
Before Mercer could answer, the crunch of gravel echoed from the perimeter gate. Twin beams of high-intensity headlights slashed through the falling snow, illuminating the ruined facade of the warehouse loft. A pair of armored black Suburbans rolled into the loading bay, doors flying open almost before the vehicles stopped moving. Men in heavy tactical gear spilled out, spreading into a practiced perimeter sweep.
“They’re early,” Mercer cursed, slamming his car door and drawing his service weapon.
Callum turned, not toward the cruiser, but toward the passenger door, yanking it open for Maeve.
“Can you run?” he asked her, his voice softening just a fraction.
“Yes,” Maeve lied, though her knees felt like water and her splinted wrist throbbed with a white-hot rhythm.
“Stay close to me,” Callum instructed, pulling her out of the car and shoving her toward the protective shadow of a concrete loading dock.
A volley of silenced automatic gunfire chewed into the brickwork inches above their heads, sending a shower of red dust and masonry raining down their necks.
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“Move!” Callum shouted, pulling Maeve behind the bulk of an industrial forklift as Mercer opened fire from the cover of the cruiser, returning suppressive rounds toward the advancing tactical team.
The air smelled of cordite, ozone, and freezing sea salt. In the middle of a Boston Christmas Eve, war had come to the harbor, and Callum Vale was stepping directly into the crosshairs.
