Chapter 13 - The D Street Mill
The drive down from Blackwood Ridge into the industrial river district of the city took forty-five minutes. As we approached the waterfront, the towering, crumbling brick chimneys of the D Street textile mill rose against the grey morning sky like the skeletal remains of an ancient beast. The surrounding streets were deserted, lined with boarded-up warehouses, rusting chain-link fences, and piles of industrial scrap metal.
"We’re two blocks out, Lieutenant," Sarah whispered toward the back seat without turning her head.
"We copy, Mrs. Vance," Lieutenant Briggs’s voice came back from beneath the hunting blankets, barely audible over the rumble of the Jeep’s tires on the cobblestone street. "Our sniper teams are in position on the adjacent warehouse roofs. They report two external lookouts on the mill’s third-floor fire escape. Do not exit the vehicle until Julian and the hostage are physically in the loading bay."
I turned the steering wheel, guiding the Jeep Cherokee down the narrow, shadowed alleyway leading to the mill’s northern loading dock. My heart was pounding against my ribs like a sledgehammer, but my hands remained steady on the wheel. Thirty years of driving school buses and raising two teenagers had taught me how to keep my cool when chaos erupted around me.
We pulled into the loading dock courtyard and brought the Jeep to a halt ten yards from the massive, rust-stained iron doors of the mill. I left the engine running, its exhaust pluming in the freezing morning air, and put the transmission into park.
For two minutes, nothing happened. The courtyard was deathly silent except for the caw of a seagull over the river.
Then, with a heavy, metallic groan, the small pedestrian door set into the center of the iron loading gates swung open.
Two men stepped out onto the concrete platform. The first was Dominic Moretti, wearing his charcoal overcoat and holding a heavy, black tactical pistol at his side. With his left hand, he was dragging my son David by the collar of his coat. David looked exhausted, his hands zip-tied behind his back, a dark bruise swelling over his left eye, but when he looked up and saw our familiar Jeep sitting in the courtyard, a flicker of hope passed over his battered face.
A second later, Julian Vance stepped out from the shadows of the doorway.
He looked nothing like the polished, charismatic gentleman who had charmed my daughter four months ago. His designer suit was wrinkled and stained with sweat, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes darted around the courtyard with the frantic, paranoid twitching of a drug addict undergoing withdrawal. In his right hand, he held a silver revolver, pointing the barrel directly at David’s temple.
"Rachel!" Julian shouted across the thirty feet of concrete between us, his voice cracking with panic. "Did you get the clean plates? Get out of the car and bring the briefcase to the dock right now! Russo’s men are pulling out in five minutes!"
Sarah looked at me, took a deep breath, and opened the passenger door. She stepped out onto the gravel courtyard, holding her leather briefcase in her left hand, letting the morning wind whip her dark hair across her face.
Julian froze. His jaw dropped, his eyes widening in absolute, paralyzed shock as he recognized his wife standing in front of him instead of his accomplice.
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"Sarah?" he gasped, lowering the revolver an inch in sheer bewilderment. "How... how did you get that car? Where is Rachel?"
"Rachel is in a federal holding cell, Julian," Sarah said, her voice carrying across the courtyard with a cold, ringing authority that made Moretti stiffen. "She traded you for a plea bargain three hours ago. The border run is over. Your bank accounts are seized, and the FBI is watching this courtyard from every roof on the river."
