Chapter 6 - Retaliation
Z
The wood around the boathouse door splintered with a deafening crack as the first blow from the sledgehammer struck home. Dust and old insulation rained down into the dark water of the slips below.
"Marcus," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. "What's our alternate exit?"
Marcus looked over his shoulder at the rear of the boathouse. The structure extended twenty feet over the open water of the lake. Suspended from heavy steel cables in the second slip was an old, wooden-hulled mahogany runabout—a classic boat that had belonged to Grant’s father.
"The boat," Marcus whispered, moving quickly toward the manual winch mounted on the wall. "If the engine starts, we hit the water and head for the public marina three miles south. My secondary team is waiting there."
"And if it doesn't start?"
"Then we hold the choke point at the door," Marcus replied, grabbing the iron hand-crank of the winch and dropping the runabout into the dark, freezing water with a loud splash that was drowned out by another heavy strike against the front doors.
The iron lock gave way with a screech of tearing metal. The double doors swung inward, revealing two men in dark tactical jackets holding heavy flashlights. Behind them, illuminated by the bright halogen beams of the SUV parked on the gravel drive, stood Grant Hale.
He was thin, his jawline sharp and unkempt, his eyes bright with a dangerous, frantic energy that I had never seen during our years together. The polished, charming prince of Chicago finance was completely gone, replaced by a desperate fugitive backed into a corner.
"Drop the bag, Emma," Grant said, stepping into the threshold of the boathouse. His hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his heavy wool coat. "You don't know what you're dealing with. Sterling Apex doesn't just hire lawyers. If those ledgers make it to the U.S. Attorney's office, my life is over—and yours won't be worth a single cent either."
"Your life was over the moment you put your hands on me in that bridal suite, Grant," I said, stepping into the beam of his flashlight, letting him see my face—unafraid, unyielding. "You thought you were a mastermind, but you were just a mid-level bagman for international criminals. You traded your freedom for an empire that didn't even exist."
Grant’s face twisted in fury. He pulled his hand from his pocket, revealing a black semi-automatic pistol. "Give me the ledger!"
Before he could raise the weapon, Marcus stepped into the light and fired two rapid shots into the wooden support beams directly above Grant’s head. The thunderous roar of the gunshots echoed inside the enclosed boathouse like cannon fire.
"Move! Now!" Marcus roared, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the low stern of the mahogany boat floating in the slip.
Grant and his men scrambled for cover behind the outer doorframes as Marcus leapt into the vessel, taking the helm while I scrambled onto the floorboards, holding the leather binder tightly against my chest.
Marcus hit the starter button. The old V8 engine sputtered, coughed, and turned over with a deep, throaty roar, filling the boathouse with the thick smell of unburnt gasoline and exhaust fumes.
"Hold on!" Marcus shouted, shoving the throttle forward.
The runabout surged forward, smashing through the rotten wooden doors that protected the lake-side entrance of the boathouse. Splintered cedar planks exploded outward into the darkness as the boat hit the open, choppy water of Lake Geneva, its bow rising high over the black waves.
Behind us, gunshots snapped through the cold night air—sharp cracks that cut through the roar of the engine. A bullet struck the chrome trim of the boat's windshield, shattering the safety glass into a thousand tiny diamonds that showered over my coat.
I looked back through the flying spray. Standing on the ruined dock, illuminated by the lights of his car, Grant watched us disappear into the darkness, his weapon lowered, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he was swallowed by the black horizon of the lake.
We sped across the dark water toward the public marina. My hands were freezing, my hair soaked with spray, but as I pressed my hand against the leather binder inside my jacket, the terror in my chest transformed into a cold, terrifying clarity.
Grant had fired at me. He had crossed the final line from corporate fraud into violent criminality.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. It had miraculously survived the wet escape. I dialed Maya’s number.
"Emma!" Maya’s frantic voice answered on the first ring. "I heard gunshots from the driveway! Where are you?"
"We're on the lake, heading for the south marina," I said, my voice cold and hard as steel. "Listen to me, Maya. I have the original 2018 agreement, the offshore transfer receipts, and the names of the state officials on Sterling Apex’s payroll."
There was a sudden, heavy breath on the other end of the line. "Are you safe?"
"I am fine," I replied. "I want you to call the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois right now. Tell him that Emma Brooks is coming in with a federal state-evidence package. And tell him to issue an immediate arrest warrant for Grant Hale for attempted murder and armed robbery."
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"I'm on it," Maya said without hesitation. "Emma... Vance just filed the injunction in Chicago."
"Let him file it," I said, looking up at the dark, starry sky above the lake. "By tomorrow morning, Julian Vance won't be practicing law. He'll be looking for his own defense attorney."
