Chapter 9 - The Last Bridge
The rain began to fall just as we hit the interstate, a grey, blinding sheet of water that turned the brake lights of the afternoon traffic into a smeared, crimson blur. I drove with an aggressive, calculated precision, my sedan weaving through the lanes while Mara’s sirens wailed three cars behind us.
Claire sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the digital map on my dashboard, tracking the emergency transponder signal from the Vanguard ambulance that Mara's office had managed to tap into.
"They aren't going to the hospital, Daniel," Claire said, her finger pointing to a flashing red dot that was moving away from downtown, heading straight toward the industrial docks near the Calumet River. "The hospital is south. They’re heading east toward the private airstrips near the state line."
"He has a private helicopter registered to his construction firm," I said, my mind calculating the distance and time. "If he gets to that hangar, he can be across the Canadian border before the FAA can flag the flight plan. The corporate entities he owns in Quebec don't have extradition treaties for local financial crimes."
"But they do for murder," Claire said, her voice cold and flat. "He knows the ledger is gone. He knows his cousin can't save him anymore. He’s not trying to save his business, Daniel—he’s just trying to save his skin."
We tore through the industrial gates of the Calumet shipping district, the tires splashing through deep pools of oil-slicked water. Up ahead, through the mist and the driving rain, the boxy, white silhouette of the Vanguard ambulance was visible, its red lights flashing aimlessly against the rusted corrugated steel walls of the surrounding warehouses.
The ambulance had stopped at the edge of the concrete pier, right next to a wide, open helipad where a sleek, black twin-engine helicopter was already idling, its rotors cutting through the rain with a deafening, rhythmic roar.
Two men in medical uniforms were pulling a stretcher out of the back of the ambulance, but the man on the stretcher wasn't lying down. Victor Hale, still in his orange jumpsuit but now covered by a heavy black raincoat, was actively climbing off the gurney, his hands free of the chains. Standing next to him, holding a large leather duffel bag, was Marcus Vance.
I slammed the brakes, my sedan skidding to a halt thirty feet from the helipad, blocking the only land exit from the pier.
I threw the door open, stepping out into the freezing rain, my hand instinctively reaching for the small, licensed compact pistol I kept in my waistband holster—a habit from my days tracking desperate men through dark places.
"Victor!" I shouted, my voice carrying over the roar of the helicopter blades. "It’s over! The federal marshals have the airspace blocked! You aren't leaving this city!"
Victor stopped, his foot on the steps of the helicopter cabin. He turned, his face wet with rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. When he saw me, and then saw Claire step out of the passenger side, his mouth twisted into a grotesque, animalistic snarl.
"You again!" he screamed, his voice cracking against the wind. "You think you can stop me? You’re a clerk, Daniel! A nobody! I own this ground!"
Marcus Vance looked panicked, his eyes darting toward the flashing lights of Mara’s approaching unit in the distance. "Victor, forget them! Get in the chopper! The pilot says we have three minutes before the regional tower locks down the sector!"
Victor didn't move. His hand went into the pocket of his heavy raincoat, and when he pulled it out, he wasn't holding a passport. He was holding a short-barreled .38 revolver—the personal weapon he had undoubtedly taken from the ambulance's lockbox.
He pointed it directly at Claire.
"I should have killed you twenty years ago," Victor roared, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Just like I killed your pathetic father!"
Before I could raise my own weapon, before the wind could shift the rain between us, a loud, sharp crack echoed across the pier.
It wasn't my gun. And it wasn't Victor’s.
Victor gasped, his body jerking violently forward. The revolver slipped from his fingers, clattering into a puddle of water. He spun around slowly, his eyes wide with shock, looking back toward the ambulance.
Standing in the open rear doors of the transport vehicle, her clothes soaked, her hands trembling as she held a heavy, service-issue steel pistol she had taken from the unconscious guard inside, was Elaine Hale.
She had followed the ambulance from the house. She had known the escape plan because she was the one who had helped Victor design it years ago. But she had finally looked at the black ledger, and she had finally seen the ghost of the husband she had sold.
"You lied to me, Victor," Elaine screamed through the rain, her voice cracking with a lifetime of accumulated agony. "You told me it was an accident! You told me he died quick! You built this house on his bones!"
Victor took two staggered steps toward her, his hand clutching his chest where a dark crimson stain was rapidly spreading across the orange fabric of his jumpsuit. "You... you crazy b..."
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He didn't finish the word. His knees buckled, his boots slipping on the wet concrete of the pier. He tumbled forward, his body striking the edge of the helipad before sliding down into the dark, churning water of the Calumet River below.
The black helicopter, seeing the disaster unfold, instantly throttled its engines, its rotors screaming as it lifted off vertically into the grey sky, leaving Marcus Vance dropping his duffel bag and falling to his knees with his hands in the air as Mara’s units finally swarmed the pier.
