Chapter 3 - The Siege of Sector Four
“They traced the local network ping!” Proctor shouted, unholstering his Glock as the heavy steel security doors at the far end of the corridor began to slide downward with a grinding hydraulic roar.
“Download the files! Take the hard drive!” I yelled, grabbing Nicholas by the shoulder and hauling him away from the terminal.
“It’s at ninety-eight percent! Just ten more seconds!” Nicholas cried, frantically mashing the enter key as the progress bar crept toward completion.
Heavy boots thudded against the concrete stairs leading down to our level. Shouting voices echoed through the stairwell.
“We don't have ten seconds!” Proctor fired two warning shots down the corridor, the deafening cracks echoing off the concrete walls, forcing the advancing security guards to duck back behind the corner.
With a satisfying beep, the progress bar hit one hundred percent. A small dialogue box popped up: Download Complete.
Nicholas ripped a portable NVMe drive out of the USB port, shoved it into his pocket, and scrambled to his feet. “Got it!”
“Move, move, move!” I ordered, shoving both of them toward the open maintenance hatch in the floor.
Proctor covered our retreat, firing suppressive rounds down the hallway as three armed security guards in tactical gear rounded the corner, rifles raised. Glass shattered from a wall-mounted fire extinguisher, and a cloud of white powder momentarily blinded our pursuers, buying us the precious seconds we needed.
I dropped down the ladder first, catching Nicholas as he tumbled through the hatch, with Proctor sliding down right behind us and slamming the heavy steel door shut just as a hail of bullets pinged harmlessly against the underside of the metal.
We scrambled back down the dark, damp drainage tunnel, splashing through the freezing water, our breathing ragged and desperate. Behind us, muffled shouts echoed from the open hatch, but the guards hesitated to follow us into the maze of toxic runoff.
Twenty minutes later, we burst out of the drainage pipe into the freezing rain, gasping for fresh air.
We sprinted across the open field toward the live oak grove where our truck was hidden. As we threw open the doors and piled inside, the headlights of two security SUVs swept across the dirt road fifty yards away, cutting through the darkness.
“Hold on!” Proctor roared, slamming the truck into four-wheel drive and flooring the accelerator.
The old Ford fishtailed violently in the deep mud, its engine roaring like a wounded animal, before leaping forward onto the gravel access road just as the security vehicles converged on our empty parking spot.
We tore through the hills, the rain blindingly thick, driving for forty-five minutes without speaking a single word. The weight of what we had discovered sat in the truck like a physical entity.
When we finally reached a safe, secluded motel off the interstate two counties away, Proctor parked the truck around the back, shielded from the highway by a row of overgrown pines.
Mateo was still sleeping soundly in the back seat, wrapped in his blanket, oblivious to the war raging around him.
Nicholas sat in the passenger seat, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he pulled the small NVMe drive from his pocket and placed it on the dashboard.
“This is it,” Nicholas whispered, his voice cracked. “Every invoice, every bank transfer, every lab report detailing the chemical contamination and the targeted poisoning of the worker communities. If we hand this over to the right federal agencies, the entire Salcedo empire collapses by noon.”
“And Eduardo knows it,” I said, looking out the frost-flecked window into the rainy night. “Which means he isn't going to wait for a warrant or a lawyer anymore. He’s going to come for us with everything he has left.”
Proctor leaned back, resting his hands on the steering wheel, his face grim. “So, what’s our play, Gabe? We can’t run forever. And we can’t walk into a local police station without getting intercepted by Salcedo’s payroll.”
May you like
I looked back at Mateo, then at my son, who had risked everything to protect his boy in the bottom of that limestone quarry. I thought of my grandfather Thomas and his unwavering belief that dignity is proven when life tries to bury you.
“We don't run,” I said softly, reaching into my jacket to check the magazine of my sidearm. “We take the fight straight to his front door.”
