Chapter 4 - A WOLF AT THE FRONT DOOR
"Turn around slowly," the gunman ordered. His accent was refined, devoid of emotion—the voice of an expensive corporate cleaner flown in on a private charter.
William did not turn. Instead, he measured the distance between his boots and the edge of the rusted iron toolbox on the lower workbench. In the crook of his left arm, he held the canvas carrier with the twins; Harper stood quietly behind his legs, gripping his denim jeans.
"You take one step toward these children, and you won't leave Kansas alive," William said, his voice dropping into a low, deadly register.
"A noble sentiment from a bankrupt wheat farmer," the man sneered, raising the pistol level with William’s temple. "Julian Bradford offered five million dollars for that flash drive and the complete erasure of the heirs. You think an Oklahoma sheriff or an FBI agent in a dust-bowl field office can stop a billionaire from claiming what he considers his corporate birthright?"
Suddenly, a tiny voice piped up from behind William's knees.
"You smell like gasoline," Harper said clearly, stepping out from behind her father. Her small finger pointed directly at the man's leather gloves. "You're the one who burned Mama’s barn."
The hitman hesitated for a fraction of a second, surprised by the total absence of tears from the five-year-old girl.
That fraction of a second was all William Miller needed.
Dropping his weight, William swung his elbow backward into the man's throat, simultaneously kicking the heavy steel toolbox across the concrete floor. The gunman staggered, his suppressed shot discharging harmlessly into a sack of dried grain. Before the cleaner could recover his sight picture, a blinding flare lit the entire warehouse.
Agent Rachel Morrison stepped through the shattered loading dock door, her FBI-issued tactical shotgun leveled from the hip.
BOOM.
The heavy blast of non-lethal breaching buckshot caught the gunman squarely in the chest vest, throwing him ten feet backward against the corrugated metal siding. He hit the floor, gasping for air, his weapon clattering into the darkness of the elevator pit. Morrison was on him instantly, driving her knee into his spine and securing his wrists with heavy zip-ties.
"Suspect secured," Morrison reported into her shoulder radio, breathing hard. "Tom, we have the primary hitman in custody, but Julian Bradford isn't waiting in Chicago anymore. He just landed a private Gulfstream at Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City."
William picked up the titanium flash drive from Locker 402, clutching it tightly. "Why is he in Oklahoma?"
"Because he’s changing tactics," Morrison answered, her jaw tight with fury. "He’s bringing high-priced lawyers, corrupt district judges, and a falsified emergency temporary guardianship filing to the county courthouse at dawn. If we don't have Theodore Kingston in person to contest the filing, Julian will take physical custody of these boys by direct court order within four hours."
"Where is Theodore?" William asked, his heart sinking.
Morrison’s satellite phone buzzed. She answered, listened for three seconds, and her face went as pale as limestone.
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"Theodore was just ambushed at a motel off Interstate 35," Morrison whispered, looking at the two infants. "He's alive, but he's surrounded."
***
