Chapter 17 - Confrontation on the Catwalk
The metal steps clanked softly beneath my boots as I reached the second-floor gantry. Below me, rows of empty shipping crates cast long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor. At the far end of the catwalk, light spilled from an open office door.
I crept forward, my back pressed flat against the corrugated metal wall. Inside the office, a man with neatly combed silver hair and a tailored trench coat was frantically typing commands into a ruggedized laptop. A secure flash drive—the one Sophia had foolishly surrendered—flashed a bright green light beside the keyboard.
"Time's up, Marcus," I said, stepping smoothly into the doorway, my service weapon raised and locked directly on his chest.
Marcus froze. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a fraction of a second before he slowly turned around. A cold, sardonic smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Ah, the brilliant little financial analyst," Marcus said smoothly, his voice echoing off the metal walls. "I wondered when the Department of Justice would send their finest bloodhound. Tell me, does your family even know you've traded high society for federal badge-carrying?"
"Put your hands where I can see them, Marcus," I ordered, my voice hard and unyielding. "The building is surrounded by federal tactical teams. You have nowhere to run."
Marcus chuckled softly, leaning back against the desk. "Surrounded? My dear Ms. Callaway, you really think I came here alone?"
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Before I could process his words, a heavy crash echoed from the opposite end of the warehouse below. Shouts rang out through the cavernous space, followed by the unmistakable sound of automated weapon fire shattering concrete pillars.
Distracted for a split second by the commotion downstairs, I shifted my weight. It was all the opening Marcus needed. With lightning speed, he swept his arm across the desk, grabbing a heavy brass paperweight and hurling it directly at my face while lunging for the laptop.
