Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Dock
The heavy rain pounded against the corrugated iron roof of the shed, drowning out the sound of footsteps outside.
Grant crouched behind a stack of mahogany lumber near the front entrance, his breathing slow and measured. His sight adjusted to the darkness, illuminated only by the faint gray glow of the fog filtering through the cracks in the walls.
The heavy wooden double doors burst inward with a deafening crash.
A tactical flashbang grenade bounced across the concrete floor.
"Shields!" Thomas roared from the opposite corner.
Grant ducked behind the thick hardwood lumber, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears just as the grenade exploded in a blinding white flash and a bone-shattering roar.
Before the echoes faded, two mercenaries pushed through the smoke, their automatic rifles leveled.
Grant didn't wait for them to acquire targets. He leaned out from behind the lumber and fired three rapid shots. The heavy hollow-point rounds slammed into the lead mercenary's chest plate, knocking him off his feet and sending his rifle skittering across the floor.
Thomas opened fire from the loft above with his shotgun. The thunderous boom echoed through the shed like cannon fire, tearing through the second mercenary's shoulder and driving him back out the door.
"Flank left!" a voice shouted from the yard. "Burn the shed down!"
"Not on my watch, you son of a bitch!" Thomas yelled, dropping down from the loft onto a mercenary who had slipped through a side window, tackling the man into a pile of iron chains and engine parts.
Grant moved through the smoke like a shadow. The instincts he had buried under ten years of boardrooms and luxury cars took complete control.
He reached the front doorway, firing two shots into the driver’s side windshield of the lead sedan parked outside, taking out the driver before the man could engage the high beams.
A third mercenary lunged at Grant from the shadow of a shipping container, slamming his rifle barrel into Grant’s arm. Grant dropped his weapon, grabbed the man’s tactical vest, and threw his weight sideways, driving both of them off the high wooden dock and plunging twenty feet down into the ice-cold, dark waters of Lake Michigan.
The shock of the freezing water hit Grant like a physical shock.
He surfaced instantly, coughing, the dark water swirling around his head. The mercenary surfaced five feet away, pulling a combat knife from his belt.
Grant didn't hesitate. He kicked off the timber piling, lunging through the water, grabbing the man’s knife arm with both hands, twisting the wrist with all his strength until the blade fell into the murky deep.
Grant pulled the man beneath the surface, holding his head down against the wooden pilings until the mercenary's flailing arms went limp.
Grant pulled himself up onto the cross-beams of the dock, gasping for air, his body shaking violently from the freezing cold.
Above him, the sound of gunfire died down, replaced by the heavy groan of metal.
Grant climbed up the ladder, dripping wet, his gun recovered from the dock floor.
Inside the shed, Thomas stood over two unconscious mercenaries, wrapping their wrists tightly with heavy steel cable. Thomas had a bloody cut across his forehead, but he was grinning like a madman.
"You still hit hard for a guy who wears Italian suits," Thomas grunted, wiping blood from his eye.
"Where’s Claire?" Grant rasped, his teeth chattering from hypothermia.
The floor hatch opened, and Claire emerged, holding a heavy iron wrench in her hand. She took one look at Grant—drenched, freezing, bleeding from his cheek—and ran to him, throwing an old wool blanket around his broad shoulders.
"You're freezing," she said, her hands trembling as she pulled the blanket tight around his neck.
"I'm fine," Grant whispered, looking down at her. "The yard is clear."
Claire looked at the unconscious men on the floor, then at Grant.
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"We can't stay here," she said, her tone returning to business. "Vance knows this location now. He’ll send more."
"He won't have time," Grant said, his gray eyes locking onto hers with absolute, terrifying focus. "The shareholder meeting is in five hours. We’re going to Chicago."
