Chapter 7
The screen of the satellite phone went black, replaced instantly by an incoming text message containing a single, chilling set of GPS coordinates and a timestamp: 02:15 AM - Downtown Municipal Archives.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He hauled his weight up the rusted iron ladder, his biceps screaming under the exertion as he reached the top. He slammed his shoulder against the heavy steel utility hatch. It gave way with a screech of protesting hinges, rusted iron flakes showering down into his hair.
He hauled himself out into the cool night air, finding himself standing in a deserted alleyway behind the municipal parking garage. The towering concrete monolith of the downtown archives building loomed across the street, its gothic limestone facade dark and imposing against the bruised purple sky.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they sounded hollow, scripted—almost as if they were being played on a loop to herd traffic away from the financial district.
Marcus crouched behind a row of overflowing industrial dumpsters, pulling his wet tank top away from his skin to catch his breath. His phone buzzed again. This time it was a standard SMS on his burner line, tracking his old cell number.
They have Vance, the text read. If you want him alive, bring the box from your trash can to the archives loading dock by two o'clock.
Marcus stared at the glowing screen. The box. The industrial-grade plating acid container he had been moving from his garage to the curb when Miller ambushed him. It wasn't just a container; it was a key container designed with a double-walled false bottom.
He sprinted across the empty four-lane road, utilizing the deep shadows cast by a row of shuttered storefronts. The archives loading dock was recessed into the side of the building, sheltered by a corrugated metal awning that dripped condensation from the humid night air.
As he approached the heavy steel rolling door, he saw a lone figure tied securely to a wooden shipping pallet. A burlap sack was thrown over the person's head, but the thick, silver-grey hair spilling out over the collar of a standard police uniform made identification unnecessary.
Vance.
Marcus stepped out from the cover of the brick pier, his hands raised palms outward to show he was unarmed. "I have the box!" he shouted into the empty loading bay, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Let him go!"
May you like
A figure stepped out from the shadows near the freight elevator, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place in a municipal shipping yard. He held a suppressed pistol casually at his side, his face hidden in the shadows of the awning.
"Step into the light, Marcus," a familiar, cultured voice commanded. "And slide the container across the concrete."
