Chapter 3 - Ambush in the Dark
The darkness in Unit 108 felt thick enough to suffocate a man.
I pressed my back against the cold concrete wall, holding my breath until my lungs burned.
Outside, metal scraped against metal as the heavy padlock on the exterior latch was inspected.
“The lock isn't broken,” the second voice grunted, sounding older and impatient.
“It's open, idiot.”
“He’s inside right now.”
“Get the iron bar from the truck.”
“Carter said no witnesses and no second chances.”
“The kid’s an ex-con on day one of parole.”
“If he turns up dead in an abandoned industrial park with an unregistered weapon, the cops will write it off as a gang deal gone bad before lunch tomorrow.”
They were going to execute me right here on the concrete floor.
Three years in Oakwood had stripped away whatever naivety I once possessed about human decency.
In prison, hesitation didn't get you hurt; hesitation got you buried under a laundry cart.
I slipped the encrypted hard drive, the blue logbook, and the burner phone into my backpack, zipping it slowly to minimize the noise.
I kept the revolver in my right hand, thumb resting gently on the grooved hammer.
A loud metallic screech echoed through the corridor as they jammed an iron crowbar under the bottom lip of the roll-up door.
The door jerked upward six inches with a violent rattle.
A powerful beam from a heavy tactical flashlight cut through the dark, sweeping across the empty workbench and settling squarely on the open green footlocker.
“He’s in here!” the first man yelled.
The door was hoisted up with a deafening bang.
Two large silhouettes stood framed against the dim amber lights of the storage corridor.
The man on the left held a heavy steel tire iron; the man on the right had a snub-nosed automatic pistol leveled at chest height.
He was wearing a dark security jacket with the Dennis Logistics crest stitched onto the left breast.
One of our own company guards, bought and paid for by Carter’s embezzled cash.
“Drop the bag, Dennis!” the guard barked, taking a cautious step forward.
“Kick it toward the door and keep your hands where I can see them!”
I didn't answer with words.
I kicked the heavy wooden workbench with all the strength in my legs.
The table overturned with an explosive crash of splintering wood and scattered tools, directly into the guard’s shins.
He screamed in pain, his balance buckling as the table pinned his legs to the concrete floor.
His pistol discharged wildly, the bullet ricocheting off the corrugated metal ceiling with a deafening crack that rang in my ears.
The second thug lunged forward with the tire iron raised high.
I ducked under the swing, feeling the rush of air graze my hair, and drove my shoulder directly into his midsection.
We hit the ground hard, rolling out of the storage locker into the damp gravel corridor.
His fist slammed into my jaw, splitting my lip and sending a metallic burst of copper across my tongue.
Pain flared through my skull, but rage fueled my muscles.
For three years, I had taken punches from guards and inmates while innocent.
I was done taking hits for crimes I didn't commit.
I brought the heavy steel barrel of the .38 down across his wrist with brutal precision.
He howled, dropping the tire iron into the mud.
Before he could recover, I drove my knee into his ribs, knocking the wind completely out of his lungs.
He curled into a wheezing ball on the wet gravel.
Behind me, the guard was scrambling out from beneath the overturned workbench, his gun hand rising toward my back.
I spun on my heels and leveled my revolver directly between his eyes.
“Touch that trigger, and you won't live long enough to spend Carter’s money,” I growled, my voice steady, cold, and deadlier than he expected.
The guard froze, his eyes widening in terror as the flashlight beam reflected off the iron sights of my weapon.
His hand trembled.
“Finnley... listen to me, man... it’s just a job,” he stammered, saliva flying from his lips.
“Carter gave us five grand each just to track you from the bus terminal.”
“Who told you I was going to Unit 108?”
“Nobody! We followed your footprints from the cemetery drainage ditch!”
“Who else knows about this locker?”
“Just Carter and Dr. Vance! Reagan doesn't even know!”
“Why doesn't Reagan know?”
“Because Carter’s playing her too!” the guard gasped, raising both hands into the air.
“Carter doesn't want to split the maritime trust with his mother!”
“He’s got forged power-of-attorney documents ready to seize the entire holding company next month!”
“He was looking for Camden’s personal ledger to destroy the paper trail!”
The rot inside that family went deeper than I had ever imagined.
Carter wasn't just working with his mother; he was preparing to slaughter her financially the moment she outlived her usefulness.
“Drop your gun on the ground,” I ordered.
The guard hesitated for a split second before sliding his weapon across the wet concrete.
I picked it up, pocketed it, and pulled the zip-ties from his security belt.
Within two minutes, I had both men bound wrist-to-ankle against the heavy support beam of the storage corridor, their mouths taped shut with industrial packing tape from my father’s workbench.
I slung my backpack over my shoulders and grabbed the tactical flashlight from the dirt.
Before leaving, I leaned down into the guard’s terrified face.
“Tell Carter that Finnley Dennis isn't hiding in the shadows anymore.”
“Tell him I'm coming to collect every single cent he stole from my name.”
I pulled the roll-up door shut, locked it with the brass key, and sprinted down the access alley toward the railway tracks.
The cold rain began to fall in earnest, washing the blood from my lip.
I had the hard drive.
May you like
I had the ledger.
Now I needed Harold Hayes, the only honest lawyer left in this corrupt town, before Carter realized his hitmen had failed.
