Chapter 6 - The Convoy to Lower Manhattan
At 5:30 AM, three heavy black SUVs cut through the thick morning fog along the FDR Drive, heading south toward the Foley Square courthouse district in Lower Manhattan.
Rain hammered relentlessly against the reinforced ballistic glass.
Inside the middle vehicle, Camden sat in the rear captain’s chair, checking the magazine of his sidearm before sliding it into his shoulder holster.
Across from him sat Hannah, holding a sleeping Eli wrapped in a heavy fleece blanket on her lap.
Jackson drove, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirrors continuously.
"Federal Marshals have established a perimeter around the back entrance of the Thurgood Marshall Courthouse," Jackson reported over the comms radio. "Victor’s convoy is five minutes ahead of us. They're bringing him in through the underground loading dock."
"Does AUSA Miller know Victor altered the files?" Camden asked, his eyes cold as ice.
"Miller doesn't care," Jackson replied grimly. "Miller wants a high-profile win. Putting Camden Rourke behind bars makes his career. He'll take Victor's word over yours any day."
Camden looked over at Hannah. Her face was pale in the amber streetlights whipping past the window, but her grip on Eli was steady as iron.
"Are you ready for this?" Camden asked her softly.
Hannah looked up from Eli's face. "I spent three weeks in a dark room with men who threatened to kill me every day, Mr. Rourke. A courtroom full of lawyers doesn't scare me."
A small, genuine smile touched Camden's lips—a rare, beautiful sight that transformed his harsh features.
"You're incredible, Hannah," he said quietly.
Hannah felt a sudden flush of warmth spread through her chest. "I'm just protecting my patient."
"He's not your patient anymore," Camden murmured, leaning forward slightly, his dark eyes fixing on her lips. "He's your family."
Before Hannah could respond, Jackson slammed on the brakes.
The SUV skidded sharply against the slick asphalt, the tires screaming in protest.
"Boss! Look out!" Jackson yelled.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, two heavy garbage trucks pulled out from an intersection, completely blocking the three lanes of the FDR Drive ahead.
From the side streets, four unmarked black sedans accelerated rapidly, boxing Camden’s three-vehicle convoy against the concrete barrier of the East River.
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"Ambush!" Jackson roared, pulling his pistol. "It's not the feds! It's Moretti's hit squad!"
The doors of the black sedans flew open, and a dozen men in tactical gear stepped out into the pouring rain, raising automatic rifles.
