Chapter 9 - The Standoff
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The tension in the concrete parking garage was thick enough to suffocate a man.
Every breath I drew tasted of sulfur, gasoline, and damp mineral dust.
I checked the sight alignment on my service pistol, holding it with steady, practiced two-handed grip.
To my right, Commander Hayes had taken up a kneeling position behind the rear bumper of a black Porsche.
His weapon was aimed directly at the driver’s side door of the disabled Maybach.
“Viktor,” I called out again, stepping six inches out from behind the pillar to give him a visible target.
“Look at the floor beneath your vehicle.”
“You have green laser points resting on your chest right now from three different federal tactical snipers.”
That was a bluff, but in the dim, chaotic lighting of a subterranean garage, uncertainty is a deadly psychological weapon.
Through the tinted passenger window of the Maybach, I saw the silhouette of a man shift nervously.
Viktor Vance was breathing heavily, his shadow moving erratically against the interior upholstery.
“You won't shoot me, Pendleton!” Vance yelled back, his voice cracking with rising hysteria.
“You need what’s inside this briefcase!”
“If you kill me, the encryption keys expire at midnight, and the offshore vaults lock permanently!”
“We already have your server stack from Suite 412, Viktor,” I countered, my voice entirely devoid of emotion.
“Sarah Lin is cracking your algorithmic keys as we speak.”
“Your master ledger in that leather case is just the cherry on top of a life sentence.”
A sudden metallic clatter echoed from the front of the luxury car.
Vance had shoved the black briefcase off the hood; it struck the concrete floor with a heavy, hollow thud.
He was trying to create a distraction, hoping our eyes would follow the prize while he made a desperate move.
In the next fraction of a second, the driver’s side door kicked open with violent force.
Vance stepped out into the open bay, screaming an unintelligible curse as he raised his submachine gun toward my position.
He didn't fire at me, however.
He fired a wild burst toward the ceiling sprinkler system, hoping to trigger an emergency water deluge and blind our vision.
High-pressure water instantly exploded from the sprinkler heads above, showering the entire garage in a blinding downpour of cold, oily water.
The sudden blast of spray obscured our tactical flashlights, turning the garage into a chaotic hall of mirrors.
“Take him down! Non-lethal if possible!” I roared through the roar of cascading water.
Marcus moved instantly, bursting from the shadows of the Range Rovers with overwhelming speed.
Vance turned his weapon toward Marcus, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Before he could fire, Commander Hayes discharged a single round from his service pistol, striking Vance directly in his right shoulder.
The impact spun the financier around, knocking the submachine gun from his grip.
The weapon clattered across the wet asphalt, sliding into a puddle ten feet away.
Vance fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder as black Lake Michigan water poured over his bespoke designer suit.
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Marcus closed the distance in two strides, driving his knee into Vance’s back and pinning him flat against the concrete floor.
The standoff was over in less than four seconds.
