Chapter 8 - The Sound of Retribution
Three shadows slipped through the crack of the rusted bay doors, moving in tactical formation. Leading them was a tall, lean figure carrying a suppressed carbine with a thermal optic sight—the man from the reception desk, the Baltic marksman known as The Ghost.
"Thermal is useless in here," Clare whispered from their high vantage point atop a catwalk twenty feet above the concrete floor. "I turned on the overhead steam pipes ten minutes ago. The whole room is glowing with phantom heat."
Below them, The Ghost paused, lowering his optic in frustration. He signaled his men with hand gestures, spreading them out toward the parked town car in the center of the warehouse.
"Now, Marcus," Clare whispered into her collar mic.
From the far corner of the warehouse, the amplified recording of a metallic slide racking echoed loudly across the concrete walls. The two Russian mercenaries spun around, instantly opening fire into the darkness of Bay 3.
The suppressed rounds smacked harmlessly into empty wooden pallets, but the sound triggered Clare's acoustic trap. The audio delay units captured the gunshot and threw it back through eight different horn speakers mounted in the ceiling rafters. To the men below, it sounded as though an entire strike team was surrounding them from the shadows.
"Ambush!" one of the mercenaries screamed, breaking formation and retreating toward the exit.
Adrien didn't miss his chance. Leaning over the catwalk railing, he fired three precise rounds into the retreating gunman, dropping him instantly. Marcus opened fire from behind a forklift, neutralizing the second operative before he could bring his heavy rifle to bear.
The Ghost, however, was a professional. He realized within seconds that the sound was an acoustic illusion. Instead of panicking, he dropped low behind a steel shipping container and raised his carbine, tracking the sound of the catwalk's vibrating iron rivets.
"He knows where we are," Clare gasped as a burst of armor-piercing rounds stitched a line of holes through the sheet metal inches below their feet.
Adrien grabbed Clare, pulling her down flat against the cold metal floor of the catwalk as sparks flew through the dark. "He has an angle on the access ladder. We can't climb down."
"He's using the rhythm of the rain on the roof to time his movements," Clare realized, her ears analyzing the tempo of footsteps below. "Every time thunder rolls, he advances five steps."
"Can you pinpoint his exact location when he stops?" Adrien asked, his magazine down to four rounds.
"Yes," she whispered, closing her eyes and listening through the chaos.
The sky outside lit up with a brilliant flash of lightning. A deafening roar of thunder shook the metal roof.
*One... two... three... four... five.*
"He stopped behind the yellow crane support!" Clare shouted. "Two feet left of the oil drum!"
Adrien didn't hesitate. He thrust his arm over the railing and fired his remaining four rounds through the thin corrugated lip of the crane support.
A sharp, agonized cry ripped through the darkness. The carbine clattered against the concrete floor.
Adrien and Clare rushed down the emergency stairs as Marcus illuminated the warehouse with high-powered floodlights. The Ghost was pinned against the crane, clutching a shattered shoulder, his weapon lying six feet away.
Adrien stepped up to the assassin, resting the hot muzzle of his empty firearm against the man's forehead. "Tell me where Victor Vance is waiting for your confirmation."
The hitman spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at Adrien, then shifted his gaze to Clare in sheer disbelief. "You... the secretary... how did you find me?"
"You forgot that empty rooms talk," Clare said coldly.
May you like
The assassin slumped against the steel girder. "Vance is at his private penthouse atop the Hudson Spire. He’s waiting for the photo of Moretti’s body to authorize the wire transfer."
Adrien looked over at Marcus. "Get Detective Ortiz and the federal task force. It's time to pay Mr. Vance a personal visit."
