Chapter 5 - The Ambush at the Lake and a Desperate Broadcast
The cold metal barrel of the pistol pressed firmly against the back of Mark Mitchell’s neck as the two men in dark suits hauled him across the wooden floor of the boathouse.
"Move, journalist," one of them snarled, shoving Mark toward the edge of the open loading bay where the dark, murky waters of Lake Livingston lapped against the pilings.
Mark clutched the red notebook tightly against his chest like a shield. His mind raced. He knew that the moment he tossed the book into the lake, or the moment they threw him in after it, the absolute truth about Gavin Cole would sink to the bottom and vanish forever.
"You think killing me stops this?" Mark shouted, trying to stall for time while keeping his thumb pressed firmly against the side button of his smartphone, activating an automated emergency broadcast app he had set up for his investigative desk. "The live stream feed is already uploading to the Chronicle cloud servers! Every single document, every bank account, every corrupt signature—it’s already reaching federal prosecutors in Washington!"
The two hitmen hesitated for a fraction of a second, exchanging a nervous glance.
"He's bluffing," the taller one muttered, cocking the hammer of his weapon. "Finish him and grab the book."
Before the trigger could be pulled, a deafening roar tore through the air above the lake.
A black-and-white Texas Department of Public Safety helicopter surged out from behind the tree line, its massive rotor wash kicking up a blinding hurricane of dust, water spray, and loose debris inside the boathouse. A high-powered spotlight blinded the two assassins, pinning them against the wooden beams like insects.
A voice boomed from the helicopter’s external loudspeaker: "Drop your weapons! Federal Marshals and State Police! You are completely surrounded!"
As the chopper hovered low, kicking open its side door, Mark didn't hesitate. He hurled himself sideways into the shallow water near the pilings as three state troopers fast-roped down into the boathouse, subduing the startled hitmen in a matter of seconds.
Agent Sarah Vance—no relation to the corrupt District Attorney, much to her relief—stepped forward, kicking the dropped pistol away, and extended a gloved hand down to Mark.
May you like
"Mr. Mitchell?" she asked, pulling the dripping journalist to his feet.
Mark coughed, holding up the water-damaged red leather notebook like a trophy. "I found it. Now get me to Huntsville immediately. We have less than three hours before they murder an innocent man."
