Chapter 5 - The Long Island Ambush
Z
The sudden plunge into darkness was punctuated by the shrill whine of the emergency backup batteries kicking in, bathing the safe house in an eerie, amber emergency glow.
“Down on the floor! Now!” Detective Reed barked, drawing his Glock 19 and pressing his back against the reinforced doorframe.
Rachel immediately dropped beneath the heavy oak conference table, pulling her briefcase against her chest. Despite the sharp flare of pain across my stitched abdomen, I slid down beside her, pressing my back against the wall out of the direct line of sight from the hallway.
From the front entrance, the sharp, deafening blast of a breaching charge shattered the silence.
The shockwave rattled the light fixtures overhead. Dust and pulverized drywall rained down through the amber light. Immediately following the explosion, the rapid, suppressed pop-pop-pop of automatic gunfire echoed down the narrow corridor, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the linoleum.
“Miller’s down!” Officer Davis shouted from the hallway, returning fire with three controlled shots from his service weapon. “They’ve got submachine guns! Reed, get her out the fire exit!”
Reed didn't hesitate. He reached down, grabbed my uninjured arm with iron grip, and hoisted me to my feet. “Rachel, stay low and follow me! We take the back stairs to the garage!”
“What about Davis?” I gasped, clutching my side as the physical exertion pulled violently against my surgical dressing.
“Davis is holding the choke point! Move!”
We moved down the rear corridor as gunfire chewed through the drywall behind us, sending splinters of wood and insulation spraying into the air. Reed kicked open the heavy metal door leading to the attached auto repair shop.
The garage was cavernous, smelling of motor oil, old rubber, and rust. A single hydraulic lift held an old sedan in the center of the concrete floor, surrounded by shadow. Reed led us toward an unmarked police cruiser parked beside the roll-up service bay door.
Before we could reach the vehicle, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the garage entrance.
He was tall, wearing a dark tactical jacket, holding a suppressed pistol with practiced ease. The crimson dot of a laser sight danced across the concrete floor, snapping instantly onto Reed’s chest.
“Detective,” the man said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Step away from Mrs. Hayes. Mr. Vance only requires her signature on the deed conveyance. You and the lawyer don't need to die in an auto shop.”
Reed didn't lower his weapon. His eyes narrowed. “Victor Vance is going to spend the rest of his life in ADX Florence for assaulting federal witnesses, you idiot.”
“Victor Vance doesn't leave loose ends,” the gunman replied calmly, beginning to squeeze the trigger.
Before the hammer could fall, a deafening metallic screech tore through the garage.
Rachel had reached out in the darkness and slammed her hand down on the emergency release lever of the hydraulic lift beside her. The three-ton sedan on the lift dropped instantly, collapsing with a thunderous crash that shattered the concrete floor and sent a wave of sparks and hydraulic fluid spraying directly into the gunman’s face.
The man flinched, his shot going wild and shattering the windshield of the police cruiser.
Reed fired twice in rapid succession. The gunman collapsed against the tool cabinet, his weapon clattering across the oily floor.
“Hit the garage door button!” Reed yelled, grabbing Rachel by the jacket and pulling her toward the cruiser.
I lunged forward, slamming my palm against the green industrial button on the wall. The heavy metal roll-up door began to grind upward with agonizing slowness. Outside, the headlights of an idling black SUV illuminated the alleyway.
Reed shoved Rachel into the back seat, pushed me into the passenger side, and threw himself behind the wheel. He slammed the transmission into reverse before the garage door was even halfway open. The police cruiser surged backward, the roof of the car scraping violently against the bottom metal edge of the roll-up door with a shower of sparks.
Reed spun the wheel, threw the car into drive, and slammed the accelerator to the floor.
The cruiser rocketed out of the alleyway, clipping the front bumper of the blocking SUV and sending it spinning across the wet asphalt. Gunfire erupted behind us, bullets shattering the cruiser’s rear window and peppering the trunk lid like hail.
Rachel screamed, keeping her head tucked between her knees on the floorboards.
Reed drove with aggressive precision, cutting through two red lights, weaving between delivery trucks, and making three rapid, erratic turns through the industrial maze of Long Island City until the pursuing headlights disappeared from the rearview mirror.
Only then did Reed ease off the throttle, his breathing heavy and ragged. He glanced over at me. “You still with me, Claire?”
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, but not from fear. From an overwhelming surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. I pressed a hand to my side; my bandages were stained with a small bloom of fresh red blood, but the pain felt distant, drowned out by the absolute certainty of what had to happen next.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice steady, cold, and clear. “Where are we going?”
“To the federal building at Foley Square,” Reed said, picking up his radio to call for an armored escort. “We’re locking you in a federal holding facility with twenty marshals outside the door.”
“No,” I said firmly, turning to look at him.
Rachel lifted her head from the floorboards, her eyes wide with shock. “Claire, are you insane? They just tried to assassinate us with military-grade weapons!”
“And they failed,” I said. “Which means right now, Victor Vance and Ethan think they’ve bought themselves time. Ethan is at the Park Avenue penthouse right now, preparing to execute the forged deed transfer before the close of business at five o’clock. If I hide in a federal bunker, Vance’s attorneys will tie up the paperwork in injunctions for months while they liquidate the assets and disappear.”
“What are you proposing?” Reed demanded, his tone skeptical.
“The county clerk’s recording office is at the Surrogates' Court on Chambers Street,” I said, pointing toward the Manhattan skyline across the river. “The grand jury is convening in the criminal courthouse across the street. We don't hide. We take the original trust deeds directly to the clerk, execute the poison pill, and then walk into the grand jury room and put Ethan and Diane in federal prison before sunset.”
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Rachel looked at me for a long moment, the fear in her eyes gradually replaced by fierce professional determination. She opened her briefcase, pulling out a pristine, blue-bound legal document with my father’s embossed seal.
“She’s right, Detective,” Rachel said quietly. “We don't play defense anymore. It’s time to bankrupt them.”
