Chapter 7 - The Counterstrike Begins
The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place, but the danger had escalated significantly. Marcus was a known international arms broker, a man with a brutal reputation who had been operating in the shadows of the Eastern Seaboard for years. If he had the drive and the coordinates, he would move the weapons within the hour.
"Agent Vance, mobilize the tactical unit," I ordered, my military instincts taking over completely. "We move on the warehouse district immediately. Chief Thomas, I need your local officers to cordoning off a three-mile radius around the railway station. No one gets in or out."
"You got it, General," Chief Thomas said, pulling out his radio and issuing immediate commands to his entire force.
My mother grabbed my arm as I prepared to leave. "Evelyn, please be careful. This is too dangerous."
"This is what I do, Mom," I said, giving her a reassuring hug. "Frank thought he could bring his dirty war into our home. I'm going to finish it."
I stepped outside into the bright afternoon sun. The neighborhood was lined with onlookers, watching the five black SUVs prepare to roll out. I climbed into the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Agent Vance taking the wheel.
"Tactical team, this is General Voss," I said into the vehicle's comms system. "Our target is Marcus and his crew. They are heavily armed with military-grade weapons stolen from our own supply lines. Rules of engagement are active hostile. Secure the drive and neutralize the threat."
"Copy that, General," the team leader replied.
The convoy tore down the suburban streets, sirens silent but engines roaring. Within minutes, we reached the industrial edge of Ashford. The old railway station was surrounded by rusted warehouses and overgrown weeds—a perfect place for an illegal transaction.
As we approached the primary warehouse, the gates suddenly swung open, and a heavy flatbed truck rushed out, escorted by two armored pickup trucks. Men in tactical gear leaned out of the windows, opening fire on our convoy with fully automatic rifles.
Bullets slammed into our reinforced windshield, spiderwebbing the glass but failing to penetrate the bulletproof material.
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"Ram them!" I ordered.
Vance slammed his foot on the accelerator. Our massive black SUV collided violently with the lead pickup truck, spinning it off the road and into a concrete barrier. The tactical operators in the trailing SUVs opened fire with precision, disabling the flatbed truck's tires in a matter of seconds. The entire convoy ground to a chaotic, smoking halt.
