Chapter 13
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Houston
Flint had packed light. A small black duffel bag containing concealed body armor, backup Glock, three spare magazines, and basic medical supplies. Everything else he might need was already in his head.
He locked the house and walked four blocks through the quiet residential neighborhood to the taxi stand on Westheimer. The morning air was cool and humid, typical for Houston in March. A yellow cab idled at the corner. The driver read a newspaper folded to the sports section.
“Where to?” the driver asked as Flint slid into the back seat.
“Thornton’s Body Shop,” Flint replied. “Do you know it?”
“Yeah,” the driver said as he started the meter and rolled into traffic.
The twenty-minute ride took them through downtown Houston and into the industrial district. Thornton’s specialized in customized vehicles for clients who valued discretion and durability over flashy rides.
The shop owner, Big Jim Thornton, was waiting with keys to an armored black Ford Expedition.
From the outside, it looked like any other suburban family hauler.
Inside, it featured ballistic panels in the doors, run-flat tires, and a reinforced frame.
The frame itself was designed to punch through roadblocks.
“Same as always,” Thornton said, handing over the keys. “Bring it back in one piece.”
“That’s the plan.”
Flint loaded his gear and pulled onto the Interstate headed north.
For the first fifty miles, he maintained steady highway speed.
He checked his mirrors for surveillance.
Three different vehicles had followed him for varying distances.
All eventually exited or changed lanes in patterns consistent with normal traffic.
Which didn’t mean he was totally clean, but it was mildly reassuring.
He left the interstate and picked up the state highway west toward Mount Warren. A two-lane road cut through the rolling Texas countryside dotted with pine forests and cattle ranches. Light traffic. Good visibility. Perfect conditions for spotting trouble.
Twenty miles from Mount Warren, the road curved through a dense stand of loblolly pines. Flint rounded the bend and saw the problem immediately.
A white panel van sat sideways across both lanes blocking the road completely. Only an instant glance was required to size things up.
No skid marks. No accident damage. Deliberate placement to block the road.
Flint’s foot moved to the brake pedal. His eyes swept the tree line on both sides of the road.
Brief movement in the shadows was followed by muzzle flashes erupting from concealed positions.
Automatic weapons fire stitched across the Expedition’s windshield.
The reinforced glass spider-webbed and held.
Rounds sparked off the armored door panels.
In his rearview mirror, a second vehicle appeared around the curve behind him. Black Suburban. Accelerating fast.
More shooters.
Flint was boxed in.
Nowhere to go except through the trees.
He floored the accelerator and yanked the wheel hard right. He aimed the Expedition’s reinforced front end at the thickest part of the pine forest. The heavy SUV crashed through the undergrowth. It snapped saplings and bounced over fallen logs.
Branches scraped against the armored glass. He fought to control the vehicle on uneven terrain.
Behind him, the Suburban tried to follow and got hung up on a stump twenty yards into the woods.
More gunfire erupted from his left. The tactical team had repositioned. They tried to bracket him between multiple firing positions.
This team was better equipped and better trained than the Kentucky crew.
Flint’s encrypted phone buzzed with an incoming call. He crashed deeper into the forest as he glanced briefly at the caller ID.
Drake’s number.
He answered the phone as he steered around a massive oak tree.
“Little busy right now,” Flint said.
“Flint, listen to me,” Drake said urgently. “Change of plans. Don’t go to Mount Warren.”
A high-velocity round punched through the Expedition’s rear window. Flint ducked instinctively but managed to maintain his grip on the steering wheel.
“Too late for that,” Flint said.
“What’s happening?”
Flint processed the tactical situation as he navigated between two massive pine trunks. “Roadblock. Coordinated assault. Pros. For sure.”
The Expedition’s engine roared. Flint pushed it up a steep incline covered in loose pine needles.
His pursuers were on foot now. They followed his tire tracks through the forest.
“Get to Illinois,” Flint said. “Work the adoption angle. Don’t let them slow you down.”
“What about you?”
Another burst of automatic weapons fire echoed through the trees behind him. Closer than before. They were gaining ground.
“I’m currently discussing strategy with some very unfriendly people in a pine forest outside Mount Warren.”
“Flint—”
The encrypted satellite phone went dead.
Electronic jamming.
Flint focused on driving. The trees were thinning ahead. They gave way to open pastureland. He could see a farmhouse in the distance. Maybe a quarter mile away.
If he could reach it, he’d have better cover. Possibly a landline to call for backup.
He pressed the accelerator and his SUV burst from the tree line into bright sunlight.
Behind him, the tactical team emerged from the forest on foot. They spread into a skirmish line and advanced across the open ground.
Flint counted at least six shooters. Full tactical gear. Advanced optics. Coordinated movement patterns revealed extensive military training.
He floored the accelerator toward the farmhouse. The SUV’s engine began to sputter. Steam poured from under the hood. At least one round had found the radiator.
The SUV was dying.
Three hundred yards to the farmhouse.
Two hundred.
One hundred.
The engine seized with a grinding metallic shriek. The SUV coasted to a stop fifty yards short of the farmhouse.
Which, Flint could now see, was abandoned. Boarded windows. Collapsed front porch. No help there.
In his mirrors, the tactical team closed fast.
Flint grabbed his gear and rolled out of the disabled vehicle. He used it for cover while he quickly evaluated his options.
The abandoned farmhouse offered concealment. No escape routes.
The open pasture provided no cover at all.
But there was something else.
He spied an old storm cellar built into a low hill behind the farmhouse. Stone construction that would stop rifle rounds. Single entrance that he could defend.
If he could reach it.
Flint slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and sprinted toward the cellar. The first shots rang out behind him. Rounds snapped through the air around him. They kicked up dirt clods from the pasture.
He dove behind the storm cellar’s entrance. A burst of automatic fire chewed into the stone wall where his head had been.
The heavy wooden door was secured with an old padlock. The wood around the hasp was rotten. Flint kicked it twice and the door swung open.
Inside, concrete steps descended into darkness.
He tumbled down the steps. More gunfire erupted outside. The cellar was maybe eight feet square. It was carved out of limestone bedrock. No windows. No back door.
Perfect defensive position. Or the perfect trap. Could go either way.
Flint pulled on the body armor and checked his weapons. The backup pistol held fifteen rounds. Three spare magazines gave him sixty total.
Against multiple expert shooters with automatic weapons.
Not great odds.
Footsteps approached the cellar entrance. He heard voices calling crisp tactical commands.
Flint found a defensive position and waited.
The first shadow appeared in the doorway.