Chapter 9 - The Forest Floor Stand-OffThe rain picked up into a vicious downpour, drumming a deafening rhythm against the roof of the Land Rover. The two operatives didn't flinch. Their posture shifted instantly from conversational to lethal engagement, their suppressed firearms raising in perfect unison, training directly center-mass on my chest.
“Last warning, Sterling,” the lead operative said, his voice devoid of human warmth. “Step away from the vehicle.”
I didn't step away. Instead, my hand slid deeper into my coat pocket, wrapping firmly around the cold steel grip of my SIG Sauer P365. I knew the math: two against one, armed professionals with superior positioning. If I drew, I had perhaps a one-in-ten chance of clearing the holster before rounds tore through my torso.
But I wasn't looking at the operatives. I was looking past them, at the steep, muddy embankment dropping down toward the churning rapids of the Northwoods river gorge just twenty feet behind their sedan.
“You think locking down my assets and seizing my company gives you absolute control?” I said, keeping my voice steady, stalling for time as I felt a heavy thud against the rear bumper behind me.
Bruno.
The 150-pound mastiff had forced himself up onto all four paws, his massive shoulders leaning against the tailgate, letting out a low, vibrating growl that shook the wet air around us.
“We don't need control of your assets, Sterling. We need containment of your knowledge,” the operative replied, stepping forward with his index finger curling inside the trigger guard. “Move away from the car.”
“Drop it!” a sharp, authoritative voice echoed from the dense tree line to our left.
A blinding arc of high-intensity tactical spotlights suddenly pierced the fog, flooding the clearing with white brilliance. Half a dozen state police cruisers burst through the brush, their sirens wailing, doors flying open as state troopers and federal marshals poured into the clearing with assault rifles raised.
“Federal Law Enforcement! Drop your weapons! Drop them now!”
The two shadow operatives froze, their tactical advantages evaporating in a single heartbeat as red laser sights from half a dozen state police rifles painted their chests.
The lead operative stared at the reinforcements, realized the tactical equation had completely inverted, and slowly, deliberately lowered his weapon, letting it drop into the mud.
“Stand down,” the operative muttered to his partner.
As the state troopers swarmed forward, slapping industrial zip-ties onto the operatives' wrists and shoving them against the hood of their sedan, a tall, gray-haired woman in a heavy trench coat stepped out of the lead police cruiser. She walked briskly across the muddy clearing, her boots splashing through the puddles, holding a gold federal badge out in front of her.
“Special Agent Vance, FBI Counter-Intelligence,” she said, looking directly at me. “We’ve been tracking this internal cell for six months. You just blew open their primary domestic clearinghouse, Mr. Sterling.”
“Vance?” I repeated, the name clicking into place. “Marcus’s sister?”
“Half-sister,” she corrected coldly, sliding her badge back into her pocket. “And trust me, I’m just as happy to see him in handcuffs as you are.”
I let out a long, ragged breath, my shoulders finally dropping as the adrenaline crash hit me like a physical wave. I turned back to the Land Rover.
May you like
Bruno was standing there, wobbling slightly on his massive paws, resting his heavy black chin against the edge of the tailgate, staring at me with those familiar, ancient eyes.
I reached up, buried my fingers in his thick fur, and whispered, “Let’s go home, big guy.”
