Chapter 9 - The Line In The Concrete
Nolan Pike felt the cold sweat pooling beneath his rubber gas mask.
“Did you hear me?!” Pike screamed at his men, his voice cracking with rage.
“Shoot this arrogant son of a bitch!”
A burly contractor beside him lowered his carbine three inches.
“Pike, look up at the rafters, man,” the contractor whispered, terror thick in his throat.
“Those are Barrett anti-materiel rifles.”
“If they pull those triggers, there won’t even be pieces of us left to put in a bag.”
“I pay you five hundred dollars an hour to do what you’re told!” Pike spat, spittle hitting the plastic visor of his mask.
“You pay us to shoot broke union organizers, Pike,” another contractor replied, backing away toward the trucks.
“Not to pick a fight with the Moretti syndicate.”
Chief Vance was shaking so violently his knees were knocking together.
The red laser dot on his forehead remained completely motionless, burning against his skin like a branding iron.
“Gabriel...” Vance stammered, raising both hands into the air.
“Let’s talk about this like reasonable men.”
“I was given signed municipal warrants by DA Cross.”
“I was obligated by my oath of office to execute them.”
Gabriel took two slow, measured steps forward onto the wet concrete of the courtyard.
Every Blackridge weapon twitched, but nobody dared raise a barrel.
“Your oath of office was purchased five years ago for forty thousand dollars in offshore casino chips, Marcus,” Gabriel said smoothly.
“We have the wire transfer logs.”
“We have the surveillance photos of you meeting Richard Blackridge at the marina in Wilmington.”
Chief Vance gasped, all color abandoning his weathered face.
“How... how did you get those?”
“Cole Mercer is an exceptionally thorough accountant,” Gabriel replied.
“When he realized Blackridge was cooking the books, he didn't just copy the environmental manifests.”
“He copied the private bribery accounts.”
“Every dirty cop on your payroll.”
“Every judge who took an envelope behind the country club.”
“Every single transaction that bought the silence of this town.”
Gabriel reached into his breast pocket.
Pike flinched, raising his shotgun an inch.
A sniper on the roof fired a single warning round.
A .50-caliber hollow-point bullet slammed into the hood of Pike’s armored SUV with the force of an artillery shell.
The heavy engine block cracked with a deafening metallic screech.
Steam and boiling radiator fluid exploded into the air, hissing violently against the cold rain.
Pike stumbled back, knocked off balance by the concussion of the blast.
He fell onto his backside in the oily water, his shotgun tumbling across the concrete.
Gabriel pulled his hand from his pocket, holding nothing more than an encrypted mobile phone.
He pressed the speakerphone button.
A crisp, authoritative voice echoed across the courtyard from the phone’s speaker.
“This is Special Agent David Martinez, United States Department of Justice, Charlotte Field Office.”
The Blackridge contractors exchanged horrified glances.
“Chief Marcus Vance,” Agent Martinez’s voice boomed clearly.
“As of ten minutes ago, the Fourth Circuit Federal Court has issued emergency arrest warrants for you, Richard Blackridge, Nolan Pike, and Leonard Cross.”
“A convoy of forty federal marshals and state highway patrol units is currently four miles from your position.”
“Any officer or private contractor who discharges a weapon at the Fifth Street facility will be charged with domestic terrorism and conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Stand down immediately, drop your weapons, and place your hands on your vehicles.”
The phone clicked off.
The courtyard fell dead quiet.
For three agonizing seconds, nobody moved.
Then, one by one, the Blackridge contractors began unhooking their tactical slings.
Rifles clattered onto the concrete.
Handguns were placed on the wet hoods of the pickup trucks.
The men raised their hands and backed away toward the perimeter wall, completely abandoning their weapons.
Chief Marcus Vance sank to his knees, his badge shining weakly under the gray morning sky.
Only Nolan Pike remained on the ground, his face twisted in a mask of homicidal hatred.
He scrambled toward his fallen shotgun with his uninjured left hand.
“You think you won, Moretti?!” Pike shrieked like a wounded animal.
“I’ll take you down with me!”
Vincent stepped forward from the warehouse shadow, his suppressed Kimber pistol raised.
A single sharp hiss: pfft.
The 230-grain hollow-point bullet tore through the meat of Pike’s left shoulder, pinning his arm uselessly against his side.
Pike collapsed face-down into the puddle, screaming in agony.
Gabriel walked over to where Pike lay in the dirt.
He stood tall over the broken mercenary, looking down with cold, unblinking eyes.
“You shot a pregnant woman because you thought she was helpless,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper that only Pike could hear.
“You thought you were a predator in a town full of sheep.”
“Now you will spend the rest of your life in a supermax federal cell, crippled in both arms, wondering why you ever stepped foot at pump four.”
Gabriel turned his back on Pike and looked at Chief Vance.
“Chief,” Gabriel said quietly.
May you like
“Cuff your attack dog and wait for the feds.”
“If any of your men take a single step off this asphalt before the marshals arrive, my snipers have orders to paint the concrete with your brains.”
