Chapter 6 - The Architect of Lies
The crack of the high-caliber suppressed rifle sounded like a heavy whip snapping in the small office.
Warren’s military training took over before his conscious mind could even process the danger. With a guttural roar, he lunged across the desk, grabbing Camille by the lapels of her coat and dragging her violently to the floor just as a second round punched through the drywall where her head had been three seconds earlier.
"Calvin!" Warren roared, pinning Camille beneath him against the industrial steel base of the desk. "Calvin, stay down! Kill the lights!"
Outside in the main garage bay, the overhead industrial sodium lights suddenly cut out, plunging the entire facility into cavernous, shadow-streaked darkness. Calvin had hit the main breaker panel.
"Who is that?" Camille gasped, her heart slamming against her ribs, the scent of motor oil and shattered glass filling her nostrils.
"Your COO doesn't like loose ends," Warren growled, his eyes scanning the shattered window frame.
Through the pouring rain outside, two sleek, unmarked black Suburbans were idling in the alleyway across from the garage. Four men in tactical rain gear, carrying short-barreled carbines, were moving with military precision toward the side entrance of the bay.
"Vanguard," Camille hissed, recognizing the tactical movements. "Richard knows Marcus breached the server. He knows I came here."
"Can you crawl?" Warren asked, his voice low, steady, and terrifyingly calm. All the weariness had vanished from him; the Seabee who had survived mortar fire in the Helmand Province had taken the wheel.
"Yes."
"Stay on your belly. Keep your head below the desk line. Head for the bay doors."
Warren reached up to the tool rack, grabbing an eighteen-inch steel pipe wrench in his right hand. He led the way, sliding silently across the grease-slicked linoleum toward the heavy steel fire door connecting the office to the garage.
They slipped through the door into the gloom. The massive bay was filled with the looming silhouettes of semi-trucks, engine hoists, and hydraulic lifts.
"Dad?" a small voice whispered from behind a tire rack.
"Calvin, I’m here," Warren whispered back. "Get to the back exit behind the parts washer. The lock is rusted—take the crowbar from the red toolbox."
"We can't outrun them in my car," Camille said, clutching the manila folder against her chest. "They'll run us off the road before we hit the I-5."
"We’re not taking your car," Warren replied coldly.
He moved toward the hydraulic lift control on the wall. On the lift sat a twelve-ton, customized commercial dump truck with an armored steel plow frame attached to the front bumper—a vehicle Warren had been retrofitting for a local municipal logging company.
The side door of the garage was suddenly kicked open with a thunderous crash. Flashlights with weapon-mounted strobes sliced through the darkness, blinding and disorienting.
"Warren Brooks!" a voice amplified by a tactical throat mic echoed through the cavernous space. "Step out with your hands visible! You are harboring a high-value corporate asset! Comply or we will utilize lethal force!"
"Go!" Warren shoved Camille toward the passenger side of the dump truck. "Get Calvin! Get inside!"
Warren slammed his palm onto the lift release lever.
The hydraulic system hissed violently as twelve tons of steel dropped ten feet in less than two seconds, hitting the concrete floor with a bone-jarring *THUD* that shook the entire foundation of the building.
The tactical team fired on reflex. A hail of nine-millimeter rounds ricocheted off the hardened steel body panels of the dump truck, throwing sparks into the darkness like fireworks.
Warren vaulted into the driver's seat, pulled the manual starter lever, and hit the ignition.
The massive twelve-liter Cummins diesel engine didn't turn over like a normal car; it roared to life with the deafening, earth-shaking rumble of a locomotive. The exhaust stack spewed a thick plume of black smoke that instantly filled the enclosed bay, blinding the shooters and swallowing their weapon lights.
"Hang on!" Warren shouted, slamming the heavy gear selector into reverse.
He dropped the clutch. The massive dual rear tires bit into the concrete, screaming as they caught traction. Warren didn't bother aiming for the open garage door.
He floored the accelerator, driving the reinforced steel tail of the dump truck straight through the corrugated metal rear wall of the building.
The wall tore apart like tin foil. Brick, mortar, and sheet metal exploded into the rainy night as the truck burst out into the rear access alley.
Behind them, one of the Suburbans attempted to cut off their escape route from the alley mouth. Warren didn't tap the brakes. He shifted into first gear, dropped the plow blade two inches off the asphalt, and rammed the Suburban head-on.
The impact was catastrophic for the SUV. The heavy steel plow crumpled the Suburban’s front end like an empty soda can, deploying both airbags and shoving the vehicle sideways across the alleyway like a child's toy.
Warren steered through the wreckage, his tires crushing the fallen bumper, and accelerated onto South Tacoma Way, the massive engine screaming into the rainy night.
Inside the cab, Calvin was curled on the floorboards, shaking but unharmed. Camille sat in the passenger seat, her knuckles bleeding from flying glass, clutching the evidence folder to her chest as if it were her own child.
She looked at Warren. His face was set in stone, blood trickling from a small cut on his temple, his hands steady on the massive steering wheel.
"Where are we going?" Camille shouted over the deafening roar of the diesel engine.
Warren glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his sea-glass eyes grim. "Somewhere your money can't touch, and his guns can't reach."
"No," Camille said, her voice rising with sudden, unshakeable authority. "We’re not running. If we run, Richard wins. He controls the board, he controls the security teams, and he controls the narrative. By tomorrow morning, he’ll have the police believing you kidnapped me."
Warren looked at her sharply. "What do you suggest, Mrs. Crowe? You want to go back to your penthouse and wait for another sniper?"
"My estate," Camille said, her eyes flashing with diamond-hard resolve. "The main house on Mercer Island is gone, but the private security compound on the south shore is fully autonomous. It has independent fiber-optic satellite links, its own power grid, and my private biometric locks. Richard can't access it without my retina scan."
May you like
She leaned closer to him, the rain lashing against the massive windshield. "My daughter is there right now with Dr. Patel and Marcus’s men. We go to Chloe. We lock the gates. And we tear Richard Sterling’s world down to the foundation."
***
