Chapter 13: The Reckoning
The burner phone clicked after a single ring.
"State your location," a calm, authoritative voice demanded on the other end of the line—the federal prosecutor out of Denver who had spent five years trying to pierce the wall of silence surrounding the black-budget syndicate.
"Farmington rail yards, Sector Four, inside the main locomotive shed," Jack said, keeping his voice level as he watched the black sedan pull up outside the rusted entrance, its tires crunching to a halt against the gravel. "I have the ledger. I have the encrypted drive. And I have the primary witness."
"Hold your position," the prosecutor replied sharply. "We have two tactical units thirty miles out. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage."
"Too late for that," Jack muttered.
He clicked the phone shut and climbed back down the ladder, landing with a heavy thud on the concrete floor beside Cale and Maya. Through the open service doors, the doors of the black sedan swung open. Two men in dark suits stepped out, followed by a tall, silver-haired man wearing an immaculate trench coat despite the desert dust. The man’s face was carved from granite, his eyes cold and devoid of human warmth.
Federal Marshal Vance.
Vance walked into the cavernous gloom of the repair shed, his polished oxblood shoes clicking rhythmically against the oil-stained concrete. He stopped twenty paces away, resting one hand casually inside his coat pocket, while his two subordinates fanned out to the left and right, their hands hovering near their concealed sidearms.
"Cale," Vance said, his voice echoing smoothly off the steel girders. "I expected better of you. Running across three state lines with a little girl and a stolen ledger. It's beneath a man of your caliber."
Cale pushed himself up from the truck bed, standing tall despite the white-hot agony radiating from his shoulder. He rested his hand on Maya’s shoulder, keeping her safely behind him. "You lost the right to talk about caliber the day you turned the unit into a private firing squad for the cartel, Vance."
May you like
Vance smiled, a cold, humorless twitch of the lips. "Power requires maintenance, Cale. You were always too sentimental for the real work. Now, hand over the drive, give me the girl and the vest, and maybe—just maybe—I'll let you and your biker friend walk out of this desert alive."
"You aren't letting anyone walk anywhere," a calm voice echoed from the shadows behind the parked sedan.
