Chapter 11 - The Trap at Lake Mercer
The damp smell of rotting wood and stagnant lake water filled the air as Chloe stepped further into the dark, echoing interior of the abandoned boathouse. Vance stood near the edge of the old wooden slip where empty boat trailers rusted away in the gloom, holding the thick manila folder containing her mother’s real autopsy report. His face was twisted into a menacing grin, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket where the heavy outline of a firearm was clearly visible through the fabric.
"I have to hand it to you, kid," Vance said, his voice echoing mockingly against the corrugated tin roof. "You’ve got a lot more backbone than your spineless father ever gave you credit for."
Chloe kept her voice calm and controlled, though her heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she listened for the crunch of police boots outside in the gravel.
"Hand over the folder, Vance," Chloe demanded steadily, keeping her eyes locked on his face. "The police are already tracking your signal. You don't have anywhere left to run."
Vance laughed harshly, shaking his head as he stepped closer to the edge of the deep water drop-off.
"Let them come," Vance sneered, pulling the manila folder up so she could see the corner of the red-stamped medical document inside. "By the time Miller and his little tactical squad bust through these rotting doors, this entire building and every piece of evidence inside it will be sitting at the bottom of Lake Mercer, courtesy of three remote-detonated incendiary charges."
Chloe’s blood ran cold as she noticed several small, blinking red LED lights wired to the structural support beams along the walls.
"You're insane," Chloe whispered, taking a slow step backward toward the exit. "You'll go down for murder and arson; Marcus isn't going to protect you from federal prison time."
"Marcus is a fool who thinks money can buy everything," Vance muttered darkly, his expression turning vicious as he lunged forward to grab her arm. "Now, hand over your jacket and the tracking device you’ve got pinned to your collar before I decide to skip the paperwork entirely."
Before Vance’s fingers could close around her fabric, the heavy wooden doors of the boathouse were kicked inward with a deafening crash.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapon right now!" Detective Miller’s voice thundered through the interior, his service pistol drawn and aimed squarely at Vance’s chest.
May you like
Vance froze for a split second, his eyes darting toward the detonator switch resting on a wooden crate behind him, before making a desperate dive toward the water.
---
