Chapter 6 - The Blowtorch and the Hard Drive
From their vantage point on the elevated catwalk, Marcus and Officer Miller looked down into the dimly lit cavern of Warehouse B. Captain Thomas Vance stood directly over the engine bay of the blue vintage pickup, a sputtering blue flame hissing from the nozzle of a heavy industrial blowtorch. Two of the suit-wearing operatives stood guard near the rusted metal doors below, their arms crossed.
“He’s going to burn it,” Miller whispered frantically, his breath fogging the cold metal of the catwalk railing. “He’s destroying the evidence right in front of us.”
“Not the engine,” Marcus whispered back, his eyes narrowing as he watched Vance’s movements. “He’s targeting the firewall compartment. That’s where the encrypted backup server is housed. If he melts that module, every trace of his corruption vanishes forever.”
Marcus slowly reached into his tactical vest, pulling out a compact, military-grade thermal scope. He pressed it to his eye, scanning the internal framework of the truck. A bright red digital signature pulsed from deep within the dashboard—the offline hard drive was still intact, but Vance was seconds away from reaching the main wiring harness.
“We have to move, now,” Marcus muttered, standing up from his crouch.
Before Miller could stop him, Marcus slipped on a pair of heavy-duty climbing gloves and dropped silently from the catwalk down onto the top of a stacked pile of wooden pallets, landing with a muffled thud that echoed off the concrete floor.
Down below, Captain Vance froze, the blowtorch still hissing in his grip. He slowly turned his head toward the sound, dropping the torch onto the concrete where it sputtered and died.
“Who’s there?” Vance shouted, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls.
One of the suit-wearing operatives unholstered a suppressed pistol, scanning the shadows near the pallets. Marcus didn't step out. Instead, he reached up, grabbed a suspended heavy-duty chain hoist hanging from the ceiling crane, and swung himself forward, kicking a stack of empty steel drums directly into the path of the approaching operative.
The drums crashed down with a deafening clatter, startling the guard and throwing him off balance.
“Marcus!” Vance roared, recognizing the silhouette stepping out from behind the falling barrels. “You absolute fool. You really think you can walk into my jurisdiction and stop what’s coming?”
Marcus kept his hands loose at his sides, stepping into the dim pool of light beneath the overhead sodium lamps. “The game is over, Vance. The Department of Justice has a full packet on your offshore accounts. Burning this truck won't save your pension.”
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Vance let out a cold, chilling laugh, reaching slowly into his jacket pocket. “The Department of Justice doesn't exist down here, Marcus. And neither do you.”
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