Chapter 20 - The Stand at the Shutter
"They're cutting the chains!" Madison yelled, racking the slide of her Glock.
"Wait!" I grabbed her arm. "If we get into a firefight in this enclosed box, Chloe could catch a ricochet."
My mind raced. I looked around the concrete storage unit. Against the wall stood four fifty-gallon drums of industrial lacquer thinner left behind by the previous tenant, alongside an electric power generator and an array of high-intensity halogen work lamps.
"Madison, give me your lighter."
Madison blinked, instantly catching my drift. "Rachel, that’s insane. The fumes alone—"
"Give it to me!"
She shoved a silver Zippo into my palm. I rushed to the back drums, using a tire iron from the SUV to pop the plastic bung seals on two of the barrels. The pungent, choking stench of petroleum solvent flooded the concrete room within seconds. I kicked the barrels over, letting the volatile fluid spill across the sloping concrete floor toward the rolling metal shutter.
Outside, the chain clattered to the ground. The metal shutter was violently hauled upward six inches, then a foot.
Three pairs of combat boots became visible beneath the rising door.
"Hold your fire!" a commanding voice barked from outside. "We want the child alive!"
"Take one more step and none of us leave this room!" I screamed, standing directly behind the lake of chemical solvent, holding the open, flickering flame of the Zippo inches above the floor.
The shutter stopped rising. A tall, broad-shouldered man in tactical gear peered beneath the door, his eyes widening as the chemical fumes hit his nostrils, taking in the spilled drums and the open flame in my hand.
"Are you out of your mind?" the lead operative shouted. "You’ll vaporize this entire block!"
"Try me!" I yelled back, tears streaming down my face from the toxic fumes, my hand rock-steady despite the terror. "You tell Evelyn Sterling that she lost the moment she traded her son’s freedom for a bank account! You step one inch into this room, and I drop this lighter!"
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For three agonizing, breathless minutes, absolute silence hung over the storage bay. The operative’s jaw twitched. His finger rested on the trigger of his rifle, but he didn't dare move. He knew that even a muzzle flash in this air would trigger a catastrophic fuel-air explosion.
And then, cutting through the standoff, the night sky was shattered by the thunderous roar of low-flying rotor blades.
