Chapter 18 - The Cold Exchange
The rain began falling in heavy sheets over the industrial district of Wilmington by eight o’clock the following night. The abandoned rail yard was a maze of rusted shipping containers, cracked asphalt, and stagnant puddles reflecting the dim yellow sodium lights from the highway overpass.
I sat in the driver’s seat of my black Ford F-150, the four Pelican cases securely strapped down in the bed beneath a heavy vinyl tarp.
Beside me, in the passenger seat, sat Agent Harris, slumped low with a tactical radio headset pressed against his ear. Two unmarked surveillance vans were parked two hundred yards back, concealed behind a row of decommissioned freight cars. Tyler was safe, miles away under the direct protection of Major Bennett.
At exactly 20:55, headlights cut through the gloom. A silver sedan turned off the access road, crawling slowly over the railroad tracks before coming to a stop forty yards in front of my truck.
The driver’s side door opened. A man stepped out into the rain, wearing a heavy waterproof jacket, his collar turned up against the wind. It was Julian Vance. Seeing him under the harsh light of my high beams—the man who had fled my home while I was fighting overseas—sent a surge of adrenaline through my limbs that took every ounce of my discipline to restrain.
Julian approached the truck cautiously, shielding his eyes from the glare. "Tyler?" he called out, his voice sharp and impatient. "Cut the lights, kid! Are the cases back there?"
I reached down, turned the key, and stepped out into the rain.
May you like
The moment the light caught my face, Julian stopped dead in his tracks. The smug confidence on his face vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
"Good evening, Julian," I said, closing the truck door with a solid, echoing thud. "Tyler couldn't make it. But I brought your delivery."
