Chapter 8 - Crossfire on the Pier"Drop your weapons! Federal agents! Nobody move!" Tommy's voice roared through the fog from the roof of the abandoned cannery, amplified by a megaphone.
The scarred man spun around in shock, dropping the envelope as his bodyguards instinctively drew their sidearms.
"It's a trap!" one of the bodyguards shouted.
Before they could raise their pistols toward the rooftop, the dark waters beside the pier churned violently. Two unmarked speedlights—manned by federal agents Tommy had secretly coordinated with through my FBI contact—slammed against the wooden pylons, their deck lights flooding the pier in blinding illumination.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation! Drop your weapons right now or we will open fire!" a voice bellowed from the lead boat.
Panic erupted among Vance's men. The scarred man lunged for me, his hand grabbing my shoulder with bruising force, trying to use me as a human shield.
"Give me the real drive, you old witch, or I swear to God—"
I didn't hesitate. Adrenaline surged through my seventy-one-year-old body, giving me a burst of strength I hadn't felt in decades. I drove my heel down hard onto his polished Italian leather shoe, twisting it with all my weight.
The man howled in pain, his grip loosening instantly.
I ducked beneath his arm, spinning away just as Tommy leaped down from the cannery roof onto the hood of the SUV, tackling one of the bodyguards into the gravel.
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Federal agents swarmed the pier from all sides, weapons drawn, shouting orders as the scarred man and his cronies were forced to their knees, their hands slammed against the cold wood of the dock.
Within three minutes, it was over. The men were zip-tied, thrown into the back of federal transport vans, and the pier fell silent again, save for the splashing of the waves against the pylons.
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