Chapter 3 - Ambush at the Docks
The rain transformed into a heavy, blinding sleet as our black SUV tore down the industrial corridor toward the Graybridge police impound facility. Davis drove with aggressive precision, while Adrian sat in the front passenger seat, inspecting the magazine of his customized .45 caliber handgun.
I sat in the rear, clutching the Glock 19 Adrian had handed me before we left the terminal.
"Rule number one," Adrian had warned me as he racked the slide. "You do not fire unless I give the command. If things go sideways, you run straight for the vehicle. Understood?"
"Understood," I had lied. I was never running again.
The police impound warehouse sat isolated near the commercial shipping docks, surrounded by chain-link fences topped with razor wire. But as our vehicle rounded the final bend, my stomach dropped.
The front gate was smashed open, swinging loosely in the freezing wind. The security guard booth was dark, its shattered glass littering the asphalt like frozen diamonds.
"We're too late," Davis hissed, cutting the headlights and letting the SUV glide silently to a halt behind a row of rusted shipping containers.
"Davis, perimeter watch. Call the backup unit," Adrian commanded, unbuckling his seatbelt with fluid ease. He turned to the backseat, his eyes finding mine in the shadows. "Stay in the car, Mara."
"No," I whispered fiercely. "That’s my father’s property. If they get that drive, Brennan walks away with forty million dollars and burns my family’s name to the ground forever."
Before Adrian could argue, the sharp crack of an automatic rifle echoed from inside the impound building, followed by the shattering of safety glass.
"Movement on the second-floor gantry!" Davis shouted as muzzle flashes illuminated the warehouse windows.
Adrian cursed under his breath, kicked open his door, and grabbed my arm, pulling me low behind the reinforced steel of the SUV. "Move! Keep your head down!"
We sprinted through the freezing slush toward the warehouse side entrance. The air was filled with the smell of cordite, burning insulation, and ozone. Inside, three private security guards lay bound and bleeding on the concrete floor, groaning in agony.
Standing near the high-security storage cages was Ray Mercer.
The tall collector with the pale scar across his lip wasn't wearing his expensive suit. He wore black tactical gear, and in his hand was the evidence box labeled CASE 4402 - WHITFIELD, ARTHUR.
Surrounding him were four heavily armed men wearing the green armbands of the Brennan syndicate.
"Well, look who decided to join the party," Ray chuckled, tossing the evidence box to one of the Brennan mercenaries. "I told Marcus you'd figure out the ledger eventually, Adrian. You're too damn smart for your own good."
Adrian stepped into the open aisle between the storage racks, his weapon held at the low ready. His face was an emotionless mask of pure, murderous intent. "You worked for my father for twelve years, Mercer. You ate at my table."
"Your father is dead, and you're too soft to run this town!" Ray spat, his eyes gleaming with greedy malice. "Marcus Brennan offered me five million in bearer bonds just to deliver this little lighter. Forty million dollars, Adrian! Why bleed for scraps on the docks when we can own the entire state treasury?"
Ray’s gaze flickered past Adrian's shoulder, locking onto me. His scar twisted into an ugly, leering grin. "And you brought Arthur’s little girl. How sweet. Arthur begged for his life on that roof, Mara. Did you know that? He cried like a baby before I kicked him over the edge."
Rage—hot, blinding, and violent—surged through my veins. Every lesson my father had taught me about shooting vanished beneath the roar of my own heartbeat.
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"Ray," Adrian spoke, his voice dangerously soft. "You should have checked who was behind me."
Before Ray could react, Adrian fired two rapid shots, dropping the mercenary holding the evidence box. The warehouse erupted into deafening gunfire.
