Chapter 28 - Turning the Screws
The cold air hit my face like a slap, smelling of burning rubber, gasoline, and sulfur.
Through the white smoke, muzzle flashes flickered from the treeline like angry fireflies. I dropped to one knee behind the Suburban's rear tire, raised the shotgun, and fired two heavy 12-gauge slugs into the brush where the nearest muzzle flash originated.
A scream of pain followed, and the firing from that position ceased instantly.
Miller and two surviving tactical operators from the rear vehicle formed a defensive semi-circle beside me, their suppressed rifles chattering in disciplined, three-round bursts. We weren't just defending; we were counter-attacking.
"Advance on the right flank!" Miller barked. "Suppress the high ground!"
I didn't wait for the perimeter to clear. A shadow moved through the smoke twenty feet away, attempting to flank our Suburban with a fragmentation grenade in hand.
I sprinted through the blinding white fog, closing the distance before the shooter could pull the pin. I swung the butt of the heavy shotgun in a brutal, horizontal arc. The solid composite stock caught the man under his jaw with a sickening crack, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the snow-covered ditch.
The grenade dropped harmlessly into the slush.
I pinned the man down with my knee against his throat, pressing the warm barrel of the shotgun against his forehead. He was wearing black tactical gear, his face bleeding, gasping for air.
"Who's commanding the intercept?" I growled into his face.
The man glared at me with bloody teeth, trying to spit. "Screw you, Harrington. You're already dead. Richard has the port codes—"
I didn't waste breath arguing. I pressed the muzzle harder against his temple until the steel cut into his skin.
"Your employer pays you to kill," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "He doesn't pay you enough to die in a ditch on Route 9. Arthur Vance is dead. Jason Vance is in a federal holding cell singing like a canary. You are fighting for a ghost ship. Give me the frequency for the *Valkyrie*’s bridge, or you don't leave this highway."
The man’s eyes flickered toward the burning lead vehicle, then back to my face. He saw the cold, unyielding resolve of a man who had everything to lose and had already made peace with the cost.
"Channel 16... tactical enc-encryption 44," the man choked out, his arrogance crumbling into raw terror. "The yacht’s captain... his name is Mercer. They’re already passing Montauk Point. They have a deep-sea submersible on the stern deck. If the Coast Guard boxes them in, Richard’s taking the sub to an offshore rendezvous!"
Julian emerged from behind the Suburban, his phone held to his ear, his overcoat dusted with snow and ash.
"Brian!" Julian called out. "State police tactical units are three miles out! The road behind us is being cleared by snowplows!"
I hauled the mercenary up by his tactical vest and shoved him toward Miller's men. "Tie him to the guardrail. Take his radio."
I turned to Julian. "Did New London launch the interceptors?"
"Ten minutes ago," Julian said, his eyes bright with tension. "They're moving at forty-five knots through the sound. But if Richard has a submersible, a surface interception won't work. The moment he hits international waters, he’ll submerge and disappear beneath the continental shelf."
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I looked down at the encrypted hardware drive in my pocket—the master bypass my grandfather had left in vault 404.
"He won't get the chance to submerge," I said, walking toward the rear Suburban, whose engine was still running smoothly. "Get me a direct satellite uplink to the *Valkyrie*’s bridge on tactical channel 44. I’m going to talk to Emily’s uncle myself."
