Chapter 9 - Blood at Warehouse 9
The rain came down in blinding sheets as the battered gray sedan turned off the coastal boulevard.
The tires splashed through six inches of standing black water along the abandoned industrial access road.
Ahead, the rusted corrugated iron structure of Warehouse 9 loomed against the stormy sky like a rotting leviathan.
A single exhaust pipe protruded from the side of the building, puffing black diesel smoke into the downpour.
"The generator is running," Hannah whispered from the back seat, her hands gripping the 9mm pistol in her lap.
"That means she's still hooked up to the circuit," Cole said from the passenger seat.
He pulled down his night-vision binoculars and scanned the second-story catwalks.
"Two snipers on the western gantry," Cole reported in a calm, lethal cadence.
"One guard posted at the loading dock door smoking a cigarette."
"And an armored transport van parked in the central bay."
"We go through the drainage culvert beneath the old icehouse," Helen said, shifting the car into park behind a mound of crushed gravel.
"Thomas and I used that tunnel during the dock strikes in '96."
"Victor doesn't know about it; it was sealed on the city blueprints forty years ago."
They moved through the rain like ghosts, their boots sinking into the wet mud.
Cole led the way, his large frame moving with surprising silence.
Hannah followed close behind, her heart thumping against her ribs, but her hands remained steady.
They slipped through the rusted iron grate of the drainage culvert, stepping into waist-deep brackish water that smelled of motor oil and sulfur.
They climbed up an iron maintenance ladder inside the concrete foundation, emerging into the pitch-black storage room behind the main assembly floor.
The low, rhythmic hum of the medical monitor was the first sound Hannah heard.
Beep... beep... beep...
Hannah peeked through a crack in the wooden partition.
In the center of the vast, cavernous warehouse, beneath a single overhead halogen lamp, sat a hospital gurney.
Sarah Miller lay on the thin mattress, her face paper-white, plastic tubing running from her arm into a whirring, battery-backed dialysis machine.
Standing beside the gurney was not an ordinary street thug.
A tall man in a navy blue police captain’s windbreaker checked his gold wristwatch under the halogen light.
"Captain Vance," Helen hissed under her breath, her hand instantly gripping her revolver.
"He's the commander of the 14th Precinct," Cole whispered, his eyes flashing with lethal understanding.
"The exact precinct where Thomas Reed used to work."
"Vance was Victor's inside man all along," Helen whispered back.
"He didn't just help Victor abduct Sarah; he helped plan the ambush twenty-six years ago."
Out on the floor, Captain Vance tapped the glass of the medical monitor with the barrel of his service weapon.
"Eleven-thirty-five, boys," Vance called out to three armed guards standing near the armored van.
"Victor’s signal hasn't come through."
"Pack up the weapons and prep the diesel cans."
"What about the old woman, Captain?" one of the guards asked.
"Unplug the machine," Vance said casually, as if ordering a cup of coffee.
"Let her seize up before we light the place."
"The coroner will write it off as an accidental generator fire in an abandoned squatter den."
"Over my dead body," Hannah whispered, stepping forward before Cole could stop her.
Cole didn't pull her back.
Instead, he kicked the wooden partition door off its rusted hinges with a thunderous crack.
The door slammed into the nearest guard, sending him crashing into a stack of steel drums.
"Police! Drop your weapons!" Helen roared, stepping out with both hands on her revolver.
Gunfire erupted instantly, tearing through the quiet gloom of the warehouse.
The sharp, deafening bangs echoed off the high metal beams.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the cavernous room in staccato bursts of orange and white.
One guard raised an automatic submachine gun, aiming straight for Hannah.
Cole lunged across the concrete, slamming his body into Hannah and shielding her with his broad frame.
A bullet grazed Cole’s left forearm, ripping through his tailored suit sleeve and drawing a line of bright crimson.
Cole didn't even flinch.
He returned fire with three rapid, precise shots, dropping the shooter where he stood.
Hannah rolled out from beneath Cole's arm, raised her 9mm, and locked her sights onto the second guard advancing toward Sarah's gurney.
She squeezed the trigger twice.
The shots struck the man's tactical vest, knocking him off his feet and sending his weapon sliding across the wet floor.
Captain Vance dove behind the armored van, firing wildly over the hood.
"Cole Kane!" Vance shouted through the echoing gunfire.
"You're protecting a dead man's daughter!"
"You're throwing away your father's empire for a girl who doesn't even know her own name!"
"My father died wearing badge forty-four-twelve, you corrupt bastard!" Cole roared back, firing two rounds through the van's windshield.
Glass shattered outward in a glittering wave.
Hannah ignored the crossfire and sprinted through the smoke toward the gurney.
A stray round sparked off the iron rail of the hospital bed just inches from Sarah's head.
"Mom!" Hannah cried out, sliding onto her knees beside the mattress.
Sarah Miller’s eyelids fluttered open.
Her sunken, exhausted eyes focused on Hannah’s tear-stained face.
"Hannah..." Sarah gasped, her voice weaker than a dried leaf in the wind.
"You shouldn't... have come..."
"I’m getting you out of here," Hannah sobbed, checking the dialysis lines.
The generator outside suddenly sputtered, the halogen lights flickering violently.
The battery backup on the medical cart beeped an angry, high-pitched warning: CRITICAL LOW POWER.
Captain Vance stepped out from behind the rear bumper of the armored van, leveling his shotgun directly at Hannah's back.
"End of the line, little girl," Vance sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.
A single, ear-splitting gunshot echoed from the catwalk above.
Captain Vance’s head snapped backward as a high-caliber round took him through the shoulder, spinning him violently onto the concrete floor.
Helen Brooks stood at the base of the iron gantry, her smoking service revolver lowered.
"That was for Thomas Reed, Vance," Helen said coldly.
Vance lay groaning on the floor, clutching his shattered shoulder as his blood mixed with the pooling diesel fuel.
Outside, the heavy roar of marine engines shook the warehouse walls.
Marcus and Team Alpha smashed through the main loading dock doors, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the remaining corners of the facility.
"Perimeter secure, Mr. Cole!" Marcus shouted over the din.
"Call the private air ambulance to the harbor helipad now!" Cole commanded, clutching his bleeding arm.
Cole walked over to the gurney, his dark eyes looking down at the frail woman who had spent twenty-six years in the shadows.
Sarah Miller looked up at Cole.
Her gaze traveled from his jawline to his dark, fierce eyes.
A single tear broke through the wrinkles on her pale cheek.
"Thomas..." Sarah whispered, reaching out a trembling, translucent hand toward Cole’s face.
Cole froze.
His stoic, ruthless demeanor cracked entirely as he looked into the eyes of the aunt he had never known.
He slowly reached down and took her frail hand in his own calloused palm.
May you like
"No, Sarah," Cole whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion he had buried since childhood.
"It’s his son."
