Chapter 7 - Close Quarters
The man inside spun around with terrifying speed.
He was in his late forties, wearing a dark waterproof tactical jacket, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and a suppressed Glock pointed straight at my chest.
Victor Vance.
"Well, well," Vance sneered, his eyes darting quickly to my immobilized left arm in the fiberglass cast. "Look what the cat dragged in. The decorated war hero with one wing clipped."
"Drop the gun, Victor," I commanded, my voice cold, steady, and devoid of fear. "The perimeter is locked down. Federal tactical teams are five minutes out."
Vance laughed softly, a dry, grating sound. "Feds aren't coming, Captain. I hacked your local security relay before I broke the lock. It’s just you and me in the dark."
He took a slow step forward, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. "Ethan was a weak, pathetic client. But he paid in advance. And since the government froze my accounts, I figure taking care of you is the one job that'll still pay out—either from his hidden offshore reserves or just for the sheer satisfaction of finishing what he started."
I didn't retreat an inch.
In close-quarters combat, when you're injured, your greatest weapon isn't your speed—it's your unpredictability.
Vance lunged forward, snapping his suppressed pistol upward to fire.
Instead of dodging backward, I dove straight forward inside his shooting arc, slamming my heavy fiberglass cast directly upward into the crook of his weapon-bearing elbow.
CRACK.
Vance let out a sharp, choked gasp of agony as the bone in his arm jarred violently. His suppressed pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the concrete floor.
Before he could recover his balance, I pivoted on my heel, driving my right elbow hard into his solar plexus, followed swiftly by a tactical palm-strike right beneath his chin.
Vance’s eyes rolled back. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto a pile of spare tires, completely unconscious.
I stood over him, breathing heavily, my heart hammering against my ribs, but my hands didn't shake. I bent down with my right hand, kicked his dropped pistol across the garage floor out of reach, and pulled my encrypted satellite phone from my pocket.
"General Hayes," I said when the secure line connected on the first ring.
May you like
"Elena? Report," Hayes's voice came through instantly.
"Victor Vance is secured in my garage," I said steadily, wiping the rain from my forehead with my sleeve. "He came looking for Ethan's secondary records. He's neutralized. Send the cleanup team."
