Chapter 5 - The Red Line
The chemical magnesium flare erupted with a blinding, terrifying roar of superheated light and smoke.
The three-thousand-degree sphere of crimson fire slammed into the wall inches from Daniel’s head, showering him in white-hot sparks and filling the narrow concrete corridor with dense, choking black smoke. The intense glare instantly burned out Daniel’s night-adjusted vision, blinding him in a sea of red agony.
"Aaargh!" Daniel gasped, dropping low into the water to avoid the toxic fumes, firing three blind rounds down the hallway. TAK! TAK! TAK!
The muzzle flashes illuminated Reed charging through the smoke like a mad bull, lifting the heavy framing hammer high above his head.
CRUNCH!
The hammer smashed down into Daniel’s left shoulder, shattering his tactical pad and knocking him backward into the freezing water. His Glock slipped from his slick fingers, disappearing into the dark, flooded floor.
Pain exploded across Daniel’s chest, sharp and white-hot. He rolled violently to his right as the hammer came crashing down a second time, striking the concrete floor where his head had been a second before, sending up a fountain of sparks and water.
"You cop bastards thought you were so smart!" Reed roared, stepping over Daniel, lifting the hammer for a killing blow. "You're nothing! Just meat in a uniform!"
Daniel didn't look for his gun. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his heavy, steel-bodied tactical flashlight. As Reed brought the hammer down, Daniel thrust the metal head of the flashlight upward with all the force left in his body, striking Reed directly in the throat.
Reed let out a wet, strangled gasp, stumbling backward, dropping the hammer into the water. He clutched his crushed windpipe, his eyes bulging in terror as he gasped for air.
Daniel scrambled to his knees, wiping blood and soot from his eyes, grabbing Reed by the lapels of his leather jacket. With a roar of pure, unadulterated fury—for Emily, for her murdered mother, for every child terrified in the dark—Daniel drove his forehead straight into Reed’s nose.
BREAK!
The sound of cartilage shattering echoed through the basement. Reed went limp, collapsing backward into the flooded corridor, unconscious, his body floating harmlessly in the three inches of water.
Panting heavily, his left shoulder screaming in agony, Daniel crawled through the dark water until his hand brushed against the cold steel frame of his dropped Glock. He retrieved it, wiped the water from the slide, and staggered to his feet.
He dragged Reed’s limp body toward the iron cell bars, sliding the man’s arms through the heavy steel links and ratcheting two pairs of heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists, locking him securely to the immovable iron structure.
"You're not dying today, Gavin," Daniel rasped, coughing up black smoke. "You're going to spend the rest of your life in a concrete box thinking about a seven-year-old girl who beat you."
Daniel turned and limped toward the end of the hall, where the heavy red electrical panel sat mounted on the brick wall. He pulled his knife, sliced through the master padlock Sterling had placed on the door, and kicked the panel open.
Inside, three massive industrial switches had been flipped to the OFF position.
Daniel grabbed the primary copper lever, braced his feet against the wet floor, and threw his weight into it.
CLACK!
With a massive, surging hum that vibrated through the floorboards, the emergency generator in the adjacent room roared to life.
Above them, through the concrete ceilings, Daniel heard the glorious, beautiful sound of the station coming back to life—power surging into the transmitters, the heavy electronic locks cycling open, and the high-powered emergency radio towers on the roof firing full wattage into the night sky.
Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out his radio, pressing the talk button.
"Marla, this is Mercer," he gasped, leaning his head against the cold electrical panel. "Power is restored. The IronKey is live. Broadcast the files to the FBI Regional Command in Atlanta. Now."
"Copy that, Daniel!" Marla’s voice came back through the speaker, crying with joy. "Files are transmitting! The Federal Marshals just confirmed receipt! They have an airborne tactical team three minutes out!"
Daniel closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. "Holt," he whispered into the radio. "Code word: Cinnamon."
A moment later, the heavy steel door of the evidence vault clicked open. Sergeant Holt stepped out into the hallway light, holding Emily.
The little girl looked down at Daniel standing in the illuminated hallway—covered in mud, soot, and blood, but alive.
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She didn't look at the trapped monster in the cells. She looked only at Daniel.
And then, for the very first time since she had walked through the glass doors at 9:46 PM, Emily offered a small, hesitant, beautiful smile.
