Chapter 6 - Into the Lion’s DenThe rain continued to hammer the glass exterior of the estate as I stepped out through the ruined French doors of the ground-floor conservatory.
I didn't hide in the shadows this time. I walked straight out into the open courtyard, the torrential rain instantly soaking through my dark tactical shirt, plastering my hair to my forehead.
In my right hand, I held the micro-drive visible between two fingers. In my left, my hand rested casually near my sidearm.
"Cross!" I shouted over the roar of the thunder. "Show yourself, you coward!"
The floodlights from three unmarked SUVs snapped on simultaneously, blinding me with a wall of harsh white glare. From behind the armored doors of the lead vehicle, a figure stepped out, flanked by half a dozen heavily armed mercenaries with assault rifles raised.
It was Vincent Cross.
He wore a tailored Italian wool suit completely ruined by the mud, his silver ring glinting ominously under the floodlights as he adjusted his cuffs. A smug, victorious grin twisted his face.
"Well, well, well," Cross sneered, stepping forward with his hands in his pockets. "The king of Boston, standing in the mud like a common dog. I must admit, Lucas, I didn't think you had it in you to give up so easily."
"I didn't give up, Vincent," I replied, my voice cutting through the storm with absolute, chilling authority. "I just delivered your death warrant."
Cross laughed—a loud, barking sound that echoed across the courtyard. "My death warrant? You're surrounded, your guards are pinned down or dead, and the little brat is locked in a vault she’ll never leave alive unless I punch the code. Hand over the drive, Lucas. Kneel, and maybe I'll make your execution quick."
"You always were arrogant, Cross," I said quietly. "You spent five years hunting Clara, thinking she had the evidence against you. But you were too stupid to realize what she left behind wasn't just a file."
I raised my wrist terminal, tapping the screen.
Instantly, the massive digital security screens mounted on the exterior walls of the Blackwood Estate—normally used for perimeter monitoring—flickered to life.
Bright, glowing letters filled the giant displays in massive red font:
FEDERAL INDICTMENT: VINCENT CROSS — ALL ASSETS FROZEN. DATA TRANSMITTING TO DOJ & INTERPOL.
Cross’s smile vanished instantly. His face went completely pale, his eyes widening in stark, unadulterated terror as he stared at the giant screens displaying his offshore account numbers, wiretap transcripts, and signed orders for murder.
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"No..." Cross whispered, stumbling backward. "No, that's impossible! The servers were encrypted!"
"They were," I said, stepping closer through the mud, my eyes locked onto his. "Until a little girl walked through my front door and handed me the master key."
