Chapter 9 - Ambush at the Neon Crossroad
The walls of room 14 dissolved into clouds of pulverized gypsum and flying wood splinters under the relentless barrage.
Three shooters on the exterior walkway were firing high-caliber, armor-piercing rounds through the thin motel walls.
Dean rolled onto his stomach, raising his weapon toward the shattered window frame.
He identified the muzzle flashes strobing in the heavy fog outside and fired four rapid, calculated rounds through the curtain.
A wet grunt echoed from the exterior corridor, followed by the heavy impact of a shooter falling across the concrete walkway.
“Teresa, crawl into the bathroom and stay inside the cast-iron tub!” Dean shouted over the deafening roar of automatic fire.
Anna grabbed her mother’s arm, dragging her across the carpet through the carpet of broken glass toward the small bathroom.
A ricochet round struck the doorframe above Anna’s head, showering her hair with white ceramic dust.
Teresa cried out in pain as a jagged copper jacket fragment grazed the fleshy part of her left shoulder.
“Mom!” Anna screamed, seeing the bright red stain blooming across her mother’s faded floral blouse.
“I’m fine, keep moving!” Teresa gasped through clenched teeth, tumbling into the porcelain bathtub.
Dean moved to the corner of the doorway, his silhouette low and dangerous as he dropped his empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home.
Outside, the tactical communication radios of the hit team hissed with cold, coordinated commands.
“Flank the rear window!”
“Do not let the accountant’s daughter leave this structure alive!”
Anna picked up her fallen firearm from the bedside table, her hands steadying under an overwhelming surge of pure adrenaline.
She was no longer the frightened waitress who had spilled wine across the damask tablecloth at Hawthorne Hill.
She was Michael Reed’s daughter, and the men outside had murdered her father and hunted her mother like an animal.
Through the bathroom’s small frosted window opening into the rear alleyway, Anna saw the dark silhouette of a shooter raising a shotgun.
The man was leveling the barrel directly toward the porcelain tub where her mother was huddled.
Anna did not hesitate.
She raised the compact firearm with both hands, aligning the white dot sights with the center of the dark silhouette.
She pulled the trigger three times in rapid, deafening succession.
The frosted glass exploded outward into the dark alley.
The shooter dropped his shotgun with a strangled cry, tumbling backward into the muddy drainage ditch behind the motel.
Anna lowered the weapon, her ears ringing from the concussive blasts inside the small tiled room.
Her breath came in ragged, burning gasps, but her hands did not shake.
Dean glanced back into the bathroom, witnessing the clean takedown with a look of grim, unspoken respect.
“Clear the back,” Dean ordered, kicking open the hollow-core bathroom door leading to the rear service alley.
He scooped Teresa into his arms, carrying her effortlessly against his chest while Anna covered their rear flank.
They burst out into the freezing fog of the service alley, where rain continued to pour down in relentless, blinding torrents.
At the end of the alleyway, a black tactical van was idling, its headlights cutting through the mist like twin halogen daggers.
The driver of the van saw them emerge and shifted into gear, accelerating down the narrow alleyway with the intent to crush them against the brick wall.
Dean set Teresa down behind a heavy industrial steel dumpster and stepped directly into the path of the oncoming vehicle.
He raised his weapon, his posture immovable as an iron statue in the driving rain.
He emptied his entire magazine through the driver’s side windshield with terrifying, surgical precision.
The heavy rounds spider-webbed the laminated glass, striking the driver in the chest and throat.
The tactical van swerved violently out of control, its front bumper slamming into the brick corner of the motel with a deafening crash of crumpled steel.
Steam hissed violently from the ruptured radiator as the engine died in a cloud of white smoke.
Dean reloaded instantly, scanning the perimeter for secondary threats.
The parking lot was silent except for the buzzing neon sign and the roar of the downpour.
“We have to move before the local police respond to the acoustic gunfire sensors,” Dean said, lifting Teresa once more.
They rushed through the tree line back to their hidden gray sedan.
Dean placed Teresa across the back seat, using a clean towel from the first-aid kit to apply direct pressure to the shoulder wound.
“The bullet passed through the deltoid muscle without striking the bone or the subclavian artery,” Dean assessed rapidly.
“She’s bleeding, but she won't bleed out if we keep this pressure dressing tight.”
Anna climbed into the back seat beside her mother, holding the dressing firmly against the wound with both hands.
Dean slammed the driver’s door and fired the engine, spinning the tires across the wet gravel as they launched back onto Route 9.
“Where are we going, Dean?” Anna asked, her voice tight with urgent concern for her mother’s failing pulse.
“To my grandfather’s private medical bunker beneath Hawthorne Hill,” Dean answered, checking the mirrors as the speedometer climbed past ninety.
“Dr. Mercer is on our personal payroll and has performed trauma surgery on five of my uncles without filing a police report.”
“Your mother will be safe there behind eighty armed guards who answer only to Henry.”
Dean glanced down at his dashboard screen, where an encrypted priority ping from Marco was blinking red.
Dean tapped the interface.
“Marco, talk to me.”
“Dean, Victor Shaw just accessed the private parking structure beneath Continental Trust on Fourth Avenue,” Marco reported urgently.
“The bank doesn't open to the public for another three hours, but Victor is using an emergency executive pass to enter the subterranean vault.”
“He knows the hit on Teresa failed, and he’s moving to empty Deposit Box 402 before the sun rises.”
“If Victor destroys whatever Michael left in that box, we have no physical evidence to present to Henry’s council.”
Dean tightened his grip on the wheel until the leather groaned.
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“He won't destroy it,” Dean said, his voice flat with lethal finality.
“Because we’re going to be waiting inside that vault when he turns the key.”
