Chapter 9 - The Final Trap
We drove through the gathering dusk, the San Diego skyline glittering ahead like a jagged wall of neon and steel. The federal building parking garage was cavernous and dimly lit, casting long, eerie shadows across the concrete pillars.
I pulled my sedan into a designated visitor spot near the elevators, grabbed Nora’s hand, and hurried toward the glass doors.
"Ethan! Over here!"
Caleb stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, flanked by two armed federal security guards. Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. We had made it. We were inside the most secure perimeter in the city.
"Show me the photo," Caleb demanded as we reached them.
I handed him the Polaroid. Caleb stared at it under the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor, his eyebrows drawing together in deep confusion. He flipped it over, studying the handwriting.
"This isn't Colin's handwriting," Caleb muttered, shaking his head. "And it doesn't match any of the syndicate profiles. The pressure stroke is entirely different. This is someone else."
"Who?" I asked, my nerves frayed to a breaking point.
Before Caleb could answer, the security system throughout the garage shrieked. The overhead lights flickered once, twice, and then plunged completely into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Emergency red backup lights snapped on, casting a blood-red glow over the entire parking level.
"Code Black. Perimeter compromised," an automated electronic voice boomed through the building's PA system.
"Get down!" Caleb roared, shoving me and Nora behind a thick concrete pillar as the screech of tires echoed down the garage ramp.
A heavy black SUV came tearing around the corner of the parking level, its high beams blinding us in a white wall of glare. The passenger-side window rolled down slowly, and a figure leaned out, holding something heavy in their hands.
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"Ethan Reynolds!" a voice called out through the screeching tires—a voice that made my blood run colder than ice water. It wasn't Colin. It wasn't a hired thug.
It was a voice I hadn't heard in years. A voice belonging to someone the entire city believed had been buried six feet deep in a cemetery across town.
