Chapter 14 - The Raid on Vance Industries
At exactly 0600 hours on Monday morning, the sun was just beginning to crest the Cascade Mountains when a convoy of twelve black tactical vehicles surrounded the sprawling, twenty-story glass headquarters of Vance Industries in downtown Seattle. Simultaneously, a second FBI SWAT team breached the perimeter gates of the Vance residential estate in Oak Bay.
I rode in the lead command Suburban with Colonel Ross and Special Agent Vance. As the vehicles screeched to a halt in front of the corporate plaza, thirty heavily armed federal agents from the FBI, DCIS, and IRS Criminal Investigation Division poured out, their rifles at the ready.
"Federal search warrant! Stand down and step away from your desks!" the lead tactical agent roared over a bullhorn as we breached the glass revolving doors of the lobby.
The private security guards in the lobby took one look at the sea of federal tactical vests and immediately raised their hands, backing away from the turnstiles. We rode the executive elevators directly to the top floor—the twentieth-floor C-suite where Arthur Vance had ruled his empire like a feudal king for thirty years.
When the elevator doors slid open, Arthur was already in his office, frantically stuffing stacks of bearer bonds and foreign currency into a leather briefcase. He had clearly realized the hitmen had failed when they didn't return his calls at dawn.
"Arthur Vance!" Special Agent Vance barked, stepping into the mahogany office with his Glock drawn. "Federal Bureau of Investigation! Step away from the desk, put your hands on your head, and drop to your knees!"
Arthur spun around, his face purple with rage and terror. He looked past the FBI agents, his eyes locking onto me as I stepped into the room wearing my tactical vest, my Class-A cover tucked under my arm.
"You!" Arthur screamed, spit flying from his lips as he made a desperate, suicidal lunge toward the desk drawer where he kept a registered revolver. "I’ll kill you!"
He didn't even reach the handle.
Two FBI SWAT agents hit him simultaneously, tackling the two-hundred-pound executive across his mahogany desk and driving him hard onto the imported Persian rug. The wind was knocked out of him with a heavy woof; an agent pinned his face against the floor while heavy steel handcuffs were snapped onto his wrists behind his back.
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I walked slowly over to where he lay groaning on the carpet. I looked down at him, my expression entirely devoid of triumph or anger—just the cold, professional satisfaction of a mission completed.
"I told you on Sunday, Arthur," I said quietly, my voice carrying over the sound of agents securing his files and computer servers. "No one will ever touch me again. And you should never have challenged the United States Marine Corps."
