The engine revved, blocking our only exit.
PART 3
The blinding glare of the high beams washed over Unit 17, casting long, frantic shadows against the concrete walls.
The FBI agent reacted instantly. She drew her weapon, stepping in front of me to shield the open unit. “Federal agent! Turn off the engine and step out of the vehicle with your hands visible!” she roared.
The SUV’s doors flew open. Two men stepped out, but they weren’t dressed like federal agents, and they certainly weren’t local police. They wore matching tactical jackets, their faces obscured by low-profile caps. One of them raised a compact, silenced firearm.
Thwip. Thwip.
Two muffled cracks shattered the silence. The brick wall right beside my head erupted in a shower of red dust.
“Down!” the agent yelled, firing two deafening rounds back at the vehicle.
I dove into the unit, my shoulder slamming against the concrete floor as I grabbed my mother’s navy handbag and wrestled the heavy steel file box into my arms. The electronic beeping inside the box was faster now, a frantic, rhythmic countdown that made my blood run cold.
The agent backed into the unit, her gun still raised as she slammed her hand against the rolling door’s handle and dragged it down with a deafening screech. She threw the latch forward just as a hail of bullets peppered the outside of the metal door like lethal hailstones.
“We have about thirty seconds before they pull that door open with a crowbar,” she panted, her face slick with sweat in the lantern light. She looked at the steel box in my arms. “The beeping. It’s a proximity tracker. Your phone—it tripped a geofence the moment you arrived. They knew you didn’t go home.”
My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. I pulled it out with trembling hands.
It was another text from my mother.
I know you’re at Route 9, Nathan. They are coming. Do not trust the badge.
I stared at the screen, my mind spinning into freefall. The agent was telling me to run, but my mother’s text told me the agent was the threat.
“Mr. Vance, listen to me,” the agent said, picking up the LED lantern and pointing it toward the very back of the unit. The light revealed a small, square maintenance hatch cut into the drywall, held together by a simple latch. “Your father didn’t build this to store papers. He built it as an escape hatch. It leads directly to the drainage ditch behind the highway. We go now, or we die in this box.”
Heavy metal scraped against the outside of the rolling door. They were prying it open.
I didn’t have time to think. I threw the strap of my mother’s handbag over my shoulder, gripped the heavy file box against my chest, and scrambled through the narrow maintenance hatch behind the agent.
We tumbled out into the freezing, muddy ditch just as a loud boom echoed from inside Unit 17—the sound of the front door being breached.
Final Part
We ran through the dense woods bordering Route 9, the thorns tearing at my funeral suit, until we reached a non-descript sedan parked half a mile down the highway. The agent threw open the doors, shoved me into the passenger seat, and slammed her foot on the gas, tearing into the dark New Jersey night.
It wasn’t until the highway lights blurred past us in a steady hum that she finally spoke.
“My name is Agent Miller,” she said, her eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. “Twenty years ago, your father, Gideon Vance, uncovered a massive asset-laundering ring within the very corporate firm he managed. The people behind it weren’t just criminals; they were ghosts buried deep inside local government, the police department, and yes, even certain rogue factions of federal intelligence.”
“And my mother?” I choked out, clutching the file box. “She’s at home. She texted me.”
“That isn’t your mother texting you, Nathan,” Agent Miller said softly, her voice heavy with grim finality. “Your mother has been in a secure federal protection facility in Vermont for the last forty-eight hours. Your father faked his own heart attack—and her disappearance—because the syndicates found out he was finally getting ready to hand the physical evidence over to the legitimate side of the Bureau.”
My trembling fingers ripped open the envelope taped to my mother’s handbag. Inside, the letter in her handwriting read:
