Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Badge
For three seconds, the only sound in the dark alleyway was the rhythmic thump-thump of my cruiser’s red and blue emergency lights flashing against the grimy brick walls.
My finger tightened on the trigger of my sidearm. I could take Vance down. I knew I could. But the four tactical operators arrayed in front of me would turn my body into Swiss cheese before I hit the ground.
Think, I told myself. Think like a cop, not a vigilante.
“You think killing a state trooper in broad daylight solves your problem?” I asked, keeping my voice terrifyingly calm as I slowly lowered the barrel of my gun by two inches—just enough to make them think I was hesitating. “The moment my GPS locator goes dark, an automatic red-flag alert goes out to every state police barracks in the Midwest. The entire county will lock down within ten minutes.”
Vance’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He glanced at the nearest operator, calculating the risk.
“You’re bluffing,” Vance said, though a drop of sweat now beaded on his forehead.
“Am I?” I asked, taking a slow step to the left, positioning myself behind the heavy engine block of my cruiser—the only piece of hard cover available. “Check your comms, Vance. Agent Vance at the FBI task force already has a satellite ping locked on my cruiser's radio transponder. If I don't check in by 17:30 hours, a tactical drone strike is authorized on these coordinates.”
It was a total, monumental bluff. But in the underworld, bluffing with supreme confidence is often more effective than a loaded weapon.
Vance’s eyes darted to the sky above the alley.
“Hold your fire,” Vance hissed to his men, raising a hand. He turned his cold gaze back to me. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Mercer. Just like your father.”
“My father taught me how to spot a rat,” I replied sharply.
Before Vance could respond, the distant, unmistakable sound of approaching sirens echoed from three streets away.
Wry-ooo! Wry-ooo!
Federal chopper rotors began to thud rhythmically overhead, sweeping a blinding spotlight down into the dark alleyway, catching Vance and his men in a brilliant white circle of illumination.
“Federal agents! Drop your weapons!” a voice boomed from a loudspeaker mounted on the underside of the FBI helicopter hovering fifty feet above us.
The four tactical operators panicked, lowering their rifles and looking at Vance for a command.
“Run!” Vance screamed, diving back toward the passenger side of his Taurus.
But it was too late.
From the mouth of the alleyway, three unmarked federal SUVs screeched to a halt, disgorging a dozen heavily armed tactical agents who flooded the corridor in a synchronized wave of Kevlar and combat boots.
“Down! Down on the ground now!”
Vance was pinned against the hood of his sedan within seconds, his arms twisted behind his back as a federal agent zip-tied his wrists with the exact same industrial-grade plastic restraints I had cut off those two little boys on the overpass three weeks ago.
As they dragged Vance past me toward a waiting transport van, he turned his head, spitting a glob of blood onto the pavement.
May you like
“You think you won, highway cop?” Vance sneered, his eyes burning with venom. “There are ten more of me waiting in Zurich and Geneva. You can’t stop the machine.”
“Maybe not,” I said, stepping up to him, my badge gleaming under the helicopter’s spotlight. “But I can sure as hell make sure you spend the rest of your life watching it run without you.”
