Chapter 10
MARC
Sela runs.
Weapon drawn, I'm closing the distance between my truck and where she's sprinting across open pavement. A white van's side door gapes open, figures moving inside. Dark shapes I can't identify from this angle, but they're contractors. Armed and professional.
"Sela! Get down!"
Either she doesn't hear me or survival mode has taken over, tunnel vision locked on reaching my truck. The distance between us narrows—yards, then feet—but the van rolls forward to intercept.
My aim shifts toward the van's windshield. Clear shot but firing into a vehicle in a public parking lot with civilians inside the diner crosses too many lines. Turns this from defense into something the law won't forgive.
An SUV blocks the exit, engine revving. The driver's repositioning, trying to cut off Sela's angle. Two-vehicle coordination means they've done this before.
Sela reaches my truck and slides behind it, using the engine block as cover. Her chest heaves, face flushed, but she's focused. She's got the Glock out now, held low against her thigh. I guess she's not just a trauma nurse.
"Get in. Driver's seat."
"What are you—"
"Now."
She doesn't argue. She yanks the door open and climbs in. The engine's already running.
The van stops a short distance away, door still open but nobody's getting out. They're assessing, recalculating now that their target has armed backup and cover. Movement flickers through the SUV's tinted windshield. The driver's on a radio or phone, calling for instructions.
"Marc." Sela's voice from inside the truck, steady despite the adrenaline. "We can't stay here."
A standoff that only ends badly if we wait. Either they decide the risk is worth it and open fire, or local law enforcement shows up and we spend hours explaining why a deputy and a civilian have weapons drawn in a diner parking lot.
Neither option works.
"When I say go, you drive straight at the SUV. Don't slow down. Don't stop. Ram it if you have to."
"And you?"
"I'll handle the van. Go!"
Sela floors it. My truck shoots forward, tires squealing against asphalt.
Weapon up, I move toward the van, putting myself between Sela's escape route and the contractors.
The van jerks backward, the driver trying to reposition, but too slow.
Sela's past, heading straight for the SUV blocking the exit.
The SUV driver spots her coming, tries to pull forward to maintain the block. But Sela doesn't hesitate. She doesn't slow. She clips the SUV's rear quarter panel with my truck's reinforced bumper—not a full-speed ram, just a controlled impact that spins the SUV out of position and opens the exit.
My truck roars through the gap and onto the street.
The van's side door slams shut. The engine revs. They're going after her.
The van accelerates toward the exit. I'm on foot with no vehicle, but I'm not letting them pursue Sela without a fight. I aim for the rear tire and fire. The shot punches through rubber with a sharp pop. The van lurches but keeps moving. I adjust and fire again. The front tire blows.
The van swerves hard. The driver tries to maintain control on two blown tires but physics wins. The vehicle fishtails, screeches sideways, slams into a parked car with a metallic crunch. The impact spins the van around until it stops perpendicular to the parking lot exit, blocking the lane.
The side door flies open. Two or three contractors bail out and scatter in different directions across the parking lot. Dark clothes, tactical gear, moving fast toward cover.
Weapon up, I've got seconds to decide. Chase armed professionals who'll split up and disappear into the surrounding streets or secure the driver and the evidence sitting in that van.
I choose the driver and evidence.
"Driver! Hands where I can see them!"
The driver's door opens slowly. Hands come out first. He's a white male, thirties, short hair, athletic build. He's wearing tactical pants and a gray jacket that could hide body armor. No visible weapons, but that means nothing.
"Step out of the vehicle. Keep your hands up."
He complies with military precision in every movement. He's controlled and assessing. He tracks everything—me, my weapon, distance to cover, escape routes.
"Turn around. Hands behind your head."
I move in fast, weapon trained center mass, and kick his legs apart. I cuff him tight, hands behind his back, then conduct the pat-down. There's a gun in a concealed holster at his hip. I drop the mag, clear the chamber, toss it aside.
I keep searching. There's a backup piece at his ankle and a knife clipped inside his waistband. After a complete disarm, I pull his wallet and check the ID. It's a Colorado driver's license for David Moore with a Denver address. I pocket the wallet.
"On your knees."
He complies without argument, kneeling on the asphalt. Rough on the knees, but it's the least he deserves after trying to kidnap Sela.
I pull out my phone, keeping the weapon trained on the contractor, and call state police dispatch.
"This is Deputy Marc Wells, Whitewater Junction Sheriff's Department. Need backup at the Route 9 Diner parking lot. Shots fired, one suspect in custody, multiple suspects fled the scene. Send a patrol unit and a tow."
"Copy, Deputy Wells. Closest unit is en route; should be there within minutes. Are you injured?"
"Negative. Suspect is secured."
I advise him of his Miranda rights while we wait. No acknowledgment, no resistance. This isn't some street thug hired for quick cash. This is military or former military with training and discipline showing through every controlled movement.
Someone Haywood sent.
State police arrive soon after. The lead officer gets a quick briefing—attempted abduction, armed contractors, one in custody. I provide my badge number and request transport to Whitewater Junction for the task force.
The officer studies the disabled van, the contractor cuffed and kneeling, the secured weapons. "This connected to the trafficking task force?"
"Yeah. Harlow Kane is coordinating. She'll be in touch for full details and custody transfer."
"Understood. We'll process and transport. You need medical?"
"Negative."
My truck pulls into the parking lot. Sela's behind the wheel, her face tight with exhaustion and adrenaline. She parks and climbs out.
"The SUV came after me," she says. "Lost them in the industrial area off Porter Street. Heard the state police chatter on your radio and figured you'd handled it."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. They tried to box me in near the warehouses, but I know those streets. Used to do rotations at the clinic over there."
Smart move. She led them away from civilians and used terrain she knew. I gesture toward the borrowed patrol unit one of the state officers offered. "Leave my truck here. We're taking that to the task force office. State police will bring my truck when they're done processing the scene."
She doesn't argue and climbs into the passenger seat while I slide behind the wheel.
"We're going to the task force office. Most secure location we've got, proper interview rooms, and Harlow will have Rhys there. You'll be safe while we interrogate the contractor."
"You think Haywood knows you've got him?"
"The other contractors got away. They'll report back. We have a narrow window to get everything this guy knows before Haywood moves to shut him up or extract him."
Several blocks pass before she speaks. "Jackie's testimony is secure. Uploaded to multiple encrypted servers. Even if Haywood gets to us, it survives."
"Something, at least."
"What happens now?"
"We get everything the contractor knows. Then find someone we can trust to move this investigation forward before Haywood buries it."
We arrive at the task force office. Harlow's vehicle is there, along with Rhys's truck. I take Sela inside to the secure conference room.
"Wait here. Lock the door behind me. Rhys and Harlow are right down the hall."
She nods and the lock engages as I head to the main office area.
Harlow and Rhys are at the computers when I walk in. Rhys looks up.
"Contractor's being transported. Should be here soon. What do you have?"
I hand him the wallet. "David Moore. Colorado driver's license. Denver address. That's all I got at the scene."
Rhys takes the license, studies it. "I'll run him through the system."
He moves to his computer and starts typing. The results populate while I watch over his shoulder. The record is clean, but too clean. No warrants. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.
"Nobody's this clean unless they've got resources making them clean."
Rhys digs deeper, pulling military service records. "Former Army Ranger. Honorable discharge. Multiple deployments." He scrolls through the dates. "Then after discharge, nothing. No employment records, no tax filings, no digital footprint."
"He's a complete ghost," Harlow says, reading over his other shoulder. "A professional contractor who works off the books."
"And Haywood hired him to abduct Sela. He had a grab kit in the van. Zip ties, duct tape, everything you'd need for a forced extraction."
"Haywood's escalating and getting desperate." Harlow crosses her arms.
The contractor arrives under state police escort. They transfer him to our secure holding area, and we give them time to clear out before moving him to the interview room.
Inside, Moore sits cuffed to the table, posture relaxed, expression neutral. He watches us like he's got all the time in the world. Patient, calculating.
Rhys doesn't take position by the door. He pulls out the third chair and sits, his presence filling the room. The man whose wife was murdered isn't standing on the sidelines.
I set a folder on the table and don't open it. Let him wonder what's inside.
"David Moore. Former Army Ranger. Honorable discharge. Now working private contracts." I pull out a chair and sit across from him. Harlow stands behind us, arms crossed. "Who hired you to grab Sela Mitchell?"
"Lawyer."