Chapter 6 - The Siege of 9th Street
The 9th Street freight depot was a sprawling graveyard of rusted corrugated iron, abandoned railcars, and overgrown weeds. Rain fell in thick sheets, hammering against the roofs of the cavernous warehouses. As Edgar killed the SUV’s lights and drifted into the rail yard, the orange glow of an active fire was already visible through the high clerestory windows of Depot 4.
"They breached the perimeter," Nell said, pointing toward the shattered security gate. Two black tactical vans sat outside the main loading doors, their hazard lights flashing through the rain.
Gunfire crackled from inside—short, controlled bursts of automatic weapons, answered by the sporadic, desperate cracks of a low-caliber revolver.
"That’s Harold Finch," Nell said urgently. "He’s an old man, Edgar! He was the city building inspector who signed off on the fraudulent fire safety reports under Mercer’s threat ten years ago. He won't survive five minutes in there!"
"Hold your fire until we breach," Edgar instructed, pulling an automatic shotgun from the gun rack beneath Danner’s rear seat. "We hit them hard and fast."
Edgar slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The heavy SUV roared forward, smashing through the depot’s corrugated side doors with a deafening crash of tearing sheet metal. The vehicle plowed into the center of the warehouse, scattering a team of four armed mercenaries who were preparing to breach an interior office with a demolition charge.
Edgar kicked his door open before the truck had even stopped moving, firing three thunderous rounds from the shotgun into the ceiling. The concussive blasts reverberated through the massive metal chamber like rolling thunder.
"Yarborough!" one of the mercenaries screamed in panic, scrambling behind an iron forklift.
Nell sprang from the passenger side, dropping to one knee behind the reinforced engine block. She fired two rounds into the tires of Mercer’s tactical van, disabling their primary escape route, while Edgar advanced with ruthless precision. He fired twice more, shredding the wooden crates concealing two shooters and forcing them into the open where they threw down their weapons under his blistering fire.
From behind an overturned filing cabinet at the back of the office, Harold Finch peeked out, his face smeared with soot, holding an empty snub-nosed revolver. Beside him huddled four other terrified survivors: two former kitchen workers, a volunteer nurse, and a shelter resident. All five were alive.
"Edgar?" Finch wheezed, tears cutting through the grime on his wrinkled cheeks. "We thought... Mercer said you ordered the liquidation!"
"Mercer is a dead man walking," Edgar declared, his voice echoing off the high steel girders. "Get these people into the back of my SUV, Nell!"
Before Nell could move, the heavy freight doors at the far end of the warehouse rolled open with a screech of rusted iron. A dozen armed men entered in disciplined formation, their laser sights cutting through the smoky rain.
Standing in the center, wearing a tailored cashmere coat over a tactical vest, was Captain Mercer. In his right hand, he held a heavy military detonator.
"Well, well," Mercer chuckled, clapping his gloved hands together in mocking applause. "The prodigal boss arrives right on schedule. And he brought my favorite little secretary with him. You really are a sentimental fool, Edgar. You threw away an empire of billions for a few worthless vagrants and a woman who took dictation."
"You made a mistake, Mercer," Edgar said, stepping in front of Nell, shielding her body with his own. "You thought my family’s teeth were pulled because I wore a silk tie. You forgot whose blood built this city."
"Your father’s blood built it," Mercer sneered, raising the detonator. "And yours is about to fertilize it. The entire foundation of this depot is rigged with C4. Once I push this toggle, you, your secretary, and every miserable witness to Bellweather will be turned into fine grey dust. By morning, the board will declare me the sole trustee of the Yarborough estate."
"Look behind you, Mercer," Nell said calmly from behind Edgar’s shoulder.
Mercer laughed mockingly. "Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to fall for the oldest distraction in the book, Miss Underhill?"
A heavy shotgun racked directly against the back of Mercer’s neck.
May you like
From the shadows behind Mercer’s formation, thirty heavily armed men stepped into the light, wearing the dark wool coats and fedoras of the old East Coast syndicate. Standing directly behind Mercer was Silvio Yarborough, a cigar clenched between his gold-capped teeth, an ancient double-barreled trench gun pressed firmly into the mercenary captain’s spine.
"The girl wasn't lying, you cheap rat," Silvio growled. "Drop the trigger before I take your head off."
