Chapter 8 - THE HIJACKED BAIL
"Bennett, do not engage!" Vance’s voice crackled through the earpiece with desperate urgency. "I’m patching into the Port Authority tactical unit and NYPD right now. We have two units within four blocks of the federal plaza in Manhattan, but the bail bond paperwork was already processed electronically fifteen minutes ago!"
"How could a federal magistrate approve bail on a drug trafficking indictment at two in the morning?" I hissed, peering around the wooden pallet.
"It was filed under an emergency medical writ signed by a compromised state judge before our federal hold was formally registered on the docket," Vance answered, fury bleeding through her words. "Lawson’s syndicate has judges on retainer, Daniel! They exploited a ninety-minute bureaucratic window between county processing and federal transfer! Lauren is walking out the front doors of 100 Centre Street right now!"
"They're going to kill her, Vance!"
"We’re moving on the plaza! But you need to pull back from that warehouse! Daniel, that’s an order!"
I didn't answer. I hung up the phone and slipped it into my pocket.
Waiting for federal bureaucracy had nearly cost me my freedom twelve hours ago; relying on it now would cost Lauren her life. Whatever hatred, heartbreak, and disgust I harbored for my estranged wife, I was not going to let her be slaughtered in a dark alley to cover the tracks of Derek Lawson’s corporate masters.
Inside the server cage, the first man—a hulking figure wearing a black tactical jacket—yanked three hard drives from the rack and shoved them into a reinforced duffel bag. His partner was dousing the primary control panels with industrial accelerant, preparing to torch the terminal.
I reached up to the wall beside me, where the emergency fire override station was mounted. I smashed the plastic casing with the butt of the heavy flashlight and pulled the master valve down with all my weight.
Instantly, an ear-splitting alarm howled through the cavernous warehouse. The automated fire suppression system engaged with a violent hiss, unleashing thousands of gallons of high-pressure water and chemical foam from the ceiling grid.
"What the hell?!" the man with the duffel shouted, stumbling back as a deluge of freezing water drenched him.
"Security tripped! Let's go!" the other yelled, dropping the gas canister.
Taking advantage of the blinding spray and howling siren, I sprinted across the concrete floor, hurled the heavy steel flashlight like a missile, and struck the second man square between the shoulder blades. He collapsed onto the slick floor with a pained grunt.
The larger man spun around, dropping the duffel bag and reaching for a suppressed pistol beneath his jacket.
I didn't give him the chance. In my twenty-four-hour shifts moving freight, I had spent years wrestling three-hundred-pound pallets and industrial machinery. I lowered my shoulder and tackled him at full speed, slamming his spine into the steel frame of the server rack. The pistol clattered across the wet concrete, sliding under a row of heavy storage containers.
He swung a vicious, bare-knuckle right hook that caught me along the jaw, splitting my lip and sending stars exploding across my vision. I tasted copper, shook the daze from my head, grabbed a loose steel cable from the severed rack, and drove my knee violently into his midsection. He doubled over, gasping for air, and I shoved him backward into the chemical foam, pinning his arms with a fallen crossbeam.
Sirens wailed in the distance outside—local police cruisers responding to the automated commercial fire alarm.
I grabbed the duffel bag containing the stolen hard drives, sprinted through the blinding deluge, and burst through the side exit into the pouring rain.
I jumped into the G-Wagon, threw the transmission into reverse, and tore out of the industrial complex just as three Stamford police cruisers came screaming through the front gates.
Wiping blood from my chin with the sleeve of my jacket, I connected my phone to the dashboard console and dialed Vance.
"Vance, the Stamford servers are secure. I have the physical drives," I panted, weaving the SUV through the slick streets toward the highway. "Where is Lauren?!"
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"She just cleared the security turnstiles at 100 Centre Street," Vance shouted over the screech of tires. "A black Lincoln Town Car is idling at the curb! Our unmarked unit is trapped two blocks away behind a garbage truck! Daniel, they’re putting her in the car!"
"I'm forty minutes out," I growled, stomping the gas pedal to the floor. The twin-turbo V8 engine roared, rocketing the three-ton vehicle into the night.
