Chapter 9 - THE SIEGE AT HAYES TOWER
Realizing the game was violently exposed to the entire nation, Judge Sterling completely lost his mind. “Kill him! Kill him and let’s get out of here!” Sterling shrieked, lunging toward Richard.
Richard saw his opening.
With Vance momentary paralyzed by panic, Richard surged upward, using his head to strike Vance beneath the chin. Vance stumbled backward, dropping his weapon. Richard swept the legs of the second mercenary, rolled across the floor, and grabbed Vance’s fallen sidearm.
Two sharp cracks echoed down the corridor as Richard neutralized the remaining armed guards.
Judge Sterling turned to run toward the stairwell, but Marcus Cole, recovering from the floor, tackled the corrupt judge through the glass doors of an executive office, pinning him face-down amidst the shattered debris.
Vance, blood pouring from his nose, scrambled to his feet and sprinted down the emergency fire stairs toward the rooftop helipad.
Richard didn't hesitate. He slammed his palm against the vault’s external intercom button. “Emma! Stay inside! The building is secure!”
Richard sprinted up the concrete stairs, bursting through the heavy roof exit onto the storm-swept helipad sixty stories above the illuminated Chicago skyline.
The wind howled at forty knots, rain whipping sideways across the concrete landing pad. A private unmarked Bell 429 helicopter was spooling its twin turbines, blades spinning into a lethal blur.
Vance was sprinting toward the open passenger door of the chopper, carrying a heavy duffel bag of bearer bonds and forged passports.
“VANCE!” Richard’s voice cut through the roar of the helicopter engines.
Vance spun around, drawing a backup pistol from his ankle holster.
The two men stood twenty yards apart under the torrential downpour, lightning illuminating the steel and glass canyons of the city below them.
“It’s over, Mark,” Richard said, his weapon trained steadily on his former friend’s chest. “The entire world saw your face. Your offshore accounts are frozen. The FBI is entering the lobby right now.”
Vance sneered, rain plastering his graying hair to his forehead. “You always were too sentimental, Richard! You let a little girl destroy a five-hundred-million-dollar syndicate! Do you really think you can shoot me? You don't have the stomach for it!”
Vance raised his pistol.
A deafening siren tore through the night sky as two federal HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) Blackhawk helicopters descended from the low cloud cover, blinding Vance with two 50-million-candlepower searchlights.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPON! DROP IT NOW!” a loudspeaker boomed from the lead aircraft.
May you like
Vance froze, blinded by the searing white light, the wind from the massive rotor blades pushing him to his knees. He looked at Richard, then looked at the tactical snipers leaning out of the Blackhawk doors.
Slowly, bitterly, Vance opened his fingers. His gun clattered onto the wet concrete of the helipad.
