Chapter 18 - The Ambush at Blackwood Marsh
The explosion didn't ignite the primary ammonia reserve—the sniper's second shot had severed the detonator's primary relay cord milliseconds before the main charge could trigger—but the secondary blast tore the container's structural frame apart, hurling Daniel through the rear aluminum wall and down into the freezing, turbulent waters of the tidal basin below.
By the time Vance dragged Rachel to her feet, water rescue boats and tactical cruisers were swarming the pier, their spotlights slicing frantically through the burning wreckage and churning black waves.
Daniel’s body was not recovered.
Three days later, the rain had finally stopped, replaced by a brittle, gray winter chill that frosted the bare oaks surrounding the state police headquarters. Rachel sat in Vance’s cramped, smoke-stained office, her arm immobilized in a black canvas sling from the fractured collarbone she sustained in the blast.
Vance walked in, tossing a fresh manila folder onto his cluttered desk. He looked grayer, thinner, but the manic intensity in his eyes hadn't dimmed.
"The dive teams found his tactical harness snagged on a submerged pylon near the mouth of the bay," Vance said, sinking heavily into his swivel chair. "No body. But the harbor current was running at six knots toward the open ocean. Medical examiners say with a shoulder wound that severe, hypothermia would have killed him within twelve minutes."
"He’s not dead," Rachel said, her voice completely devoid of doubt.
Vance looked at her, his brow furrowed. "Rachel, human biology has limits."
"Daniel isn't human," she replied quietly, leaning forward. "He survived three separate lethal doses of his own synthesized toxins over the last ten years just to build an immunity. He knew that harbor better than the coast guard. If there’s no body, he pulled himself onto a barge or an outbound tug."
Before Vance could respond, the office phone rang with a harsh, urgent tone. Vance picked it up, listened for five seconds, and his face drained of color.
"Where?" Vance barked, standing up so violently his chair crashed back against the filing cabinet. "Secure the perimeter. Don't let anyone touch the vehicle!"
He slammed the receiver down and grabbed his tactical jacket from the hook.
"What is it?" Rachel asked, standing instantly.
"State police just found Judge Sterling," Vance said, his hand already resting on his holster. "His Mercedes was pulled over in Blackwood Marsh, forty miles north of the city. He’s tied to the steering wheel."
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"Alive?"
"No," Vance said grimly. "His throat was cut from ear to ear with an industrial folding blade. And Rachel... written in blood across the dashboard was your childhood address."
