Chapter 6 - BLOOD IN THE DUSTAs Henderson leaned in, his focus shifted for a split second to the glowing blue keypad.
I didn't touch the buttons. Instead, I drove my right elbow backward into the side of his knee with every ounce of force in my body.
A sickening SNAP echoed through the cellar as his knee joint hyperextended backward. Henderson screamed in agony, his hand jerking upward as he instinctively fired the gun.
THUMP.
The suppressed gunshot sounded like a heavy thud against the dirt walls. The bullet smashed into the wooden beam above my head, showering us in splinters.
Before he could pull the trigger a second time, I grabbed his wrist, twisting it violently outward in a joint lock I had practiced a thousand times in combatives training. The gun clattered out of his fingers, falling into the dirt floor.
Henderson collapsed onto his back, gasping in pain and clutching his shattered leg.
I scooped up the pistol, racked the slide to clear the chamber, and aimed it straight at the center of his forehead.
"Move again and I won't hesitate," I said, my voice ice cold.
Henderson lay in the dust, hyperventilating, his eyes wide with horror as he stared into the barrel of his own gun. "Natalie... wait... please... we can make a deal... Brandon has money hidden in Panama... millions..."
"Shut up," I commanded.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket with my left hand and dialed a direct line I had memorized years ago—the direct contact for the CID Field Office at Rock Island Arsenal.
"This is Sergeant Natalie Carter," I said clearly when the line connected. "I am at 4402 Old Mill Road. I have secured high-value stolen DoD hardware, a compromised civilian broker, and evidence of an ongoing treason network. Send federal agents immediately."
As I hung up, the heavy sound of vehicle tires crunching over gravel echoed from the driveway outside the barn.
I stepped back toward the ladder, keeping the gun pinned on Henderson.
I thought it was the federal authorities arriving early.
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But as I pulled myself up into the daylight of the barn, I saw a black SUV parked outside. The driver's door opened, and my brother Brandon stepped out—along with two heavy-set men wearing tactical vests and holding automatic rifles.
Brandon had posted bail. And he hadn't come back to negotiate.
