Chapter 6 - The Deputy Director’s Trap
Five minutes later, the roar of heavy engines shattered the quiet morning air.
Two black armored suburban SUVs tore into the loading dock, their tires spraying gravel as they skidded to a halt in a tactical blockade formation.
The doors flew open.
Eight men in dark tactical gear with U.S. MARSHAL patches across their chests stepped out, weapons lowered, taking up security positions around the dock.
Stepping out from the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle was Deputy Director Richard Miller.
He was a tall, silver-haired man in a immaculate dark suit, carrying himself with the polished arrogance of a high-ranking Washington bureaucrat.
Cross stood in front of Admiral Whitmore, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.
“Director Miller,” Cross said, his tone neutral. “You made good time from D.C.”
Miller walked up the concrete steps of the loading dock, his eyes sweeping over the blood-stained Admiral lying on the ground, then moving to Cross’s battered face.
“Where is she, Daniel?” Miller asked softly, his voice smooth as silk.
Cross raised an eyebrow. “Where is who?”
“Don't play games with me, Marshal,” Miller said, stepping closer. “Vance’s team reported that Nurse Sloan Marsh was in Trauma One when the breach occurred. Vance himself is currently unresponsive in the basement. I know she was with you.”
Cross didn't blink. “She ran when the shooting started. I lost her in the sub-basement. My priority was securing the Admiral.”
Miller’s face twisted into a dark, disappointed sneer. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small electronic tracking device, its screen displaying a blinking blue dot located less than twenty feet away.
“Did you really think I didn't tag your satellite phone when you made that call, Daniel?” Miller asked quietly. “Vance’s network isn't just a few rogue mercenaries. It’s built into the very foundation of federal law enforcement.”
Miller gestured to his tactical team. “Search the loading dock. Find the girl. And execute the Marshal.”
The tactical team raised their assault rifles.
Cross didn't flinch. He slowly smiled.
“You didn't ask why I called in a Code Alpha, Richard,” Cross said softly.
Before Miller could react—
CRACK.
A high-powered rifle round shattered the front windshield of Miller’s Suburban.
A second later, four flashbang grenades rained down from the roof of the loading dock, exploding in a blinding, deafening cascade of light and sound.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
The tactical team was instantly thrown into disarray, staggering backward, clutching their ears and eyes.
From the roof above, three figures in black urban camo repelled down steel cables, hitting the concrete with explosive speed.
They weren't Vance’s men.
They were operators from the Navy SEAL Team 6 Anti-Terrorism Unit—Admiral Whitmore’s personal security detail, called in by Sloan ten minutes earlier using the emergency frequency hidden inside the titanium dog tag.
Sloan stepped out from behind a heavy concrete pillar, holding a suppressed assault rifle she had scavenged from Vance’s man in the utility shaft.
“Drop your weapons!” the lead SEAL operator screamed, his laser sight fixed directly between Deputy Director Miller’s eyes. “On the ground! NOW!”
Miller froze, his face pale as paper, his hands slowly rising into the air as his corrupt tactical team was disarmed and forced to their knees in seconds.
Sloan walked up to Miller, her face calm, her eyes like chipped ice.
She reached up, pulled the titanium dog tag from her neck, and held it in front of his face.
“The grand jury has everything, Miller,” Sloan said quietly. “Your offshore accounts. Your signatures on Vance’s strike orders. It was all uploaded to the Department of Justice secure server five minutes ago.”
Miller stared at her, his lips trembling. “Who... who are you?”
May you like
Sloan looked at Marshal Cross, then back at the disgraced bureaucrat.
“I’m the nurse who saved the Admiral,” she said softly.
