Chapter 2 - Smoke and SteelThe second kick splintered the heavy oak frame around the lock. Wood chips flew across the concrete floor.
"Harold, get behind the lumber rack!" I commanded, my voice dropping into absolute tactical authority.
Harold scrambled behind a stack of mahogany panels, clutching the blue file to his chest like a shield. I grabbed two heavy cans of polyurethane sealant from the shelf and positioned myself directly beside the doorframe. In close-quarters combat, angles and surprise were everything.
Crash!
The door burst inward on its hinges. Grant lunged into the room, holding a heavy tire iron, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Behind him stood Vanessa, her face twisted in a mask of manic desperation.
"Where is it?!" Vanessa shrieked, scanning the room. "Where did the old man hide the papers?!"
Grant spotted Harold trembling behind the lumber rack. "There!" he snarled, charging forward.
As Grant lunged past the doorframe, I didn't hesitate. I brought the heavy gallon can of sealant down with maximum force across the back of his shoulders, sending him sprawling face-first onto the concrete floor. The can ruptured, spraying thick, sticky chemical resin all over his designer jacket.
"You bitch!" Grant roared, scrambling up like a rabid animal, his nose bleeding onto the floor. He swung the tire iron in a blind, savage arc.
I ducked beneath the swing, letting momentum work against him. I drove my bootheel hard into his knee joint—a precise, disabling strike. Grant crumpled with a gut-wrenching howl of agony, dropping the tire iron with a metallic clatter.
Vanessa backed away toward the broken door, her face draining of color. "Grant, get up! Get her!"
"He's not getting up, Vanessa," I said, stepping over Grant’s writhing body and walking slowly toward my sister. The tactical training from my deployments locked my emotions into a cold, unbreakable cage. "And neither are you. Harold has the blue file. The federal authorities already have copies of the embezzlement logs."
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Vanessa’s expression shifted from panic to sheer, venomous hatred. She reached into her cashmere coat, her fingers wrapping around the cold steel barrel of a concealed compact pistol.
"Then nobody gets anything," she whispered.
