Chapter 6 - Face to Face with the Devil
"You always were too damn persistent for your own good, Alex," Vance sneered, his voice cutting through the roar of the pouring rain and the idling engine.
He stood twenty feet away, his expensive leather coat soaked through, pointing the revolver directly at my chest. Beside him stood his head of corporate security, a massive man named Briggs, holding a heavy crowbar.
"You killed her," I said, my voice dangerously low, my knuckles white as I gripped the iron tire bar in my right hand. "You broke into my house, you forced my brother to help you, and you murdered my wife!"
Vance laughed—a cold, hollow sound that made my skin crawl.
"I gave Clara a choice, Alex! She found the offshore manifests for the chemical barrels we buried under the new housing development. I offered her two hundred thousand dollars in cash to hand over that ledger and keep her mouth shut. You know what she did? She spat in my face and threatened to call the EPA and the FBI!"
"She was an honest woman!" I roared, taking a step forward.
"She was a liability!" Vance barked, raising the gun higher. "Your brother Derek was easy to buy. He owed sixty grand in gambling debts to guys in Cleveland. I paid his debts, and in return, he gave me the key to your house and told me when your wife was alone!"
My blood turned to liquid fire. My own brother had sold out my wife's life to settle his pathetic debts.
"Your mother wasn't any better," Vance added with a smirk. "Teresa was so terrified of losing her family's precious reputation in this redneck town that she willingly helped clean up the room and lock your daughter in the closet! They all chose money and fear over your precious little family!"
"And what about you, Vance?" I asked, taking another slow step sideways, calculating the distance between us. "What happens when the state police get here in two minutes?"
Vance glanced over his shoulder toward the quarry entrance, where distant sirens were beginning to echo off the stone walls.
"In two minutes, you and your wife's body will be at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot flooded pit," Vance said coldly, his finger tightening on the trigger. "A tragic accident. A grieving husband goes mad, chases the transport van, and drives off a cliff."
He pulled the hammer back on the revolver.
Before he could pull the trigger, a brilliant pair of high-beam headlights flared to life from the top of the gravel mound behind Vance, blinding him completely.
BAM! BAM!
Two gunshots shattered the air, but they didn't come from Vance's weapon.
A dark SUV charged down the gravel slope, slamming hard into Briggs, sending the security chief flying into the mud.
Vance stumbled backward, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare. "What the hell?!"
Through the rain, I saw the driver of the SUV step out—it was my father's old friend and business partner, Hank, a retired Marine who ran the local auto repair shop, holding a 12-gauge shotgun.
"Drop the weapon, Vance!" Hank roared over the storm.
I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, swinging the heavy tire iron with every ounce of strength in my body, striking Vance's right wrist.
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The revolver flew from his grip, spinning off into the mud. Vance screamed in pain, clutching his broken wrist, and collapsed to his knees in the gravel.
I stood over him, my chest heaving, the tire iron raised high above my head, ready to crush his skull into the dirt.
