Chapter 3 - Shadows Over San Antonio
Night fell over Texas like a heavy velvet shroud. Outside the steel walls of Huntsville, rain began to pour, drumming a relentless rhythm against the small, barred windows of the transfer vehicle.
They weren't keeping me in Huntsville. Under the guise of "security protocol," the State Deputy Director had ordered my immediate transfer to a county facility closer to the appellate court in San Antonio. It was a move designed to isolate me, to cut me off from Elena and the press.
I sat in the back of the armored van, secured by heavy leg irons and a belly chain. Across from me sat two guards I had never seen before. They didn't wear standard Texas Department of Criminal Justice patches. Their uniforms were black, unbranded, and their eyes were cold, void of the routine exhaustion typical of prison guards.
"You boys aren't TDCJ," I said softly, the hum of the engine vibrating through my boots.
The guard on the left, a thick-necked man with a scar running through his left eyebrow, didn't answer. He simply reached down and checked the sidearm holstered at his chest.
"Marcus Vance pays well, doesn't he?" I continued, leaning my head back against the reinforced wall. "How much is it costing him to make sure this transport suffers a 'fatal road accident' on Highway 90?"
The second guard looked at the first. A subtle, dangerous shift occurred in the atmosphere inside the van.
"Shut your mouth, Cole," the scarred guard snapped.
"I know how this works," I said, smiling without warmth. "You wait until we hit the unlit stretch near Seguin. You pull over, claim the prisoner attempted an escape, put two bullets in my chest, and call it a tragic necessity. Standard mafia cleanup. The only problem is, you're working off an old playbook."
Suddenly, the van swerved violently.
The screech of burning tires echoed over the thunder outside. The sound of metal crunching against metal exploded from the front cab. I was thrown hard against the side wall, my shoulder absorbing the impact as the vehicle spun out of control, sliding sideways across the slick asphalt before slamming into a guardrail and coming to a violent halt.
Alarm sirens inside the driver's cabin began to blare.
"What the hell was that?!" the scarred guard yelled, reaching for his sidearm.
Before he could rack the slide, the rear doors of the van were blown open with a deafening crack. A flashbang grenade bounced onto the floor between us.
White light and blinding noise exploded in the enclosed space. My ears roared, and my vision went instantly white. But I had been in breaches before. I closed my eyes tight the second I saw the metal cylinder roll, shielding my head.
Shots rang out—three sharp, suppressed pops.
When the spots in my eyes began to clear, both black-uniformed guards were slumped over, unconscious or dead. Heavy hands grabbed my shoulder harness and hauled me out into the pouring rain.
Cold water smashed into my face. I gasped for air, looking up at my rescuer.
It wasn't the police. It wasn't the FBI.
Standing over me with a silenced submachine gun was Leo "The Hammer" Moretti—my former lieutenant, the man who had taken over the family business after I was locked away.
"You look terrible, Gavin," Leo grunted, his rain-slicked face illuminated by the flashing hazard lights of the wrecked transport van.
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"Leo?" I choked out, coughing as water filled my lungs. "What are you doing here?"
"Your attorney called the wrong people, but she made enough noise that my guys picked it up on the police scanners," Leo said, pulling a set of heavy bolt cutters from his coat. He snapped the chain connecting my cuffs to my waist in one swift motion. "The Moretti family doesn't let its legacy get put down by a dirty prosecutor. We're going to get your kid, and then we're going to burn this state to the ground."
