Chapter 16
The cross-hairs of Brooke’s pistol danced across the bridge of Garrett’s nose. Her finger curled around the cold metal trigger, tightening by millimeters. The distance was roughly forty yards—a difficult shot in the dim light and heavy mist, but entirely achievable for someone with her training.
Just breathe, she told herself, whispering the old military mantra her father had drilled into her. Sight picture. Press, don't jerk.
Below, Garrett was pacing frantically, screaming obscenities at the mercenaries as they fanned out toward the drainage pipe. The co-pilot was nearly at the opening, pushing the infant carriers through the heavy iron grate. Just a few more seconds, and they would be in the storm sewers, completely out of reach.
If she pulled the trigger now, she would eliminate Garrett, but the sound of the gunshot would instantly draw every mercenary in the building directly toward the drainage pipe. She couldn't risk the children.
Lowering the pistol by a fraction of an inch, Brooke aimed not at Garrett's head, but at the massive, rusted chain-hoist suspended from a structural crane directly above where he was standing. The hoist held a three-ton block of solid pig iron—a relic from the foundry's manufacturing days, held aloft by a single, frayed steel cable that had been rotting in the damp air for half a century.
Clack.
She squeezed the trigger. The suppressed pistol spat twice.
The bullets severed the frayed strands of the steel cable with surgical precision.
With a deafening, metallic screech that sounded like the wail of a dying leviathan, the three-ton block of pig iron plummeted from the ceiling directly toward the spot where Garrett was standing.
"Look out!" a mercenary screamed, lunging forward and tackling Garrett out of the way just a split second before the massive iron block slammed into the concrete floor with a concussive shockwave that cracked the foundation and sent a geyser of sparks and dust shooting forty feet into the air.
Garrett hit the wet concrete hard, gasping for air as debris rained down on him. He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, staring in sheer terror at the massive block of iron blocking his path.
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"Who’s there?!" Garrett shrieked, looking up into the dark rafters. "Show yourself!"
From the shadows of the cross-beams, Brooke dropped silently to the lower catwalk, her boots hitting the metal with a sharp, echoing clang. She descended the old maintenance ladder, stepping out onto the foundry floor through the swirling cloud of iron dust, her Sig Sauer raised and locked firmly on Garrett's chest.
