The Biker At The Gate And The Ghost Of Daniel Vance
CHAPTER 4: THE IRON AMBUSH
Sheriff Wayne Finch stood braced in the shattered entrance of the silo, framed against the pale, drifting fog of the riverbank. He had his heavy service Glock held in a rigid two-handed combat stance, the crimson laser sight emitting a steady, unwavering beam that burned into the center of Toby’s chest. Flanking him on either side were two men wearing unmarked black tactical gear, Kevlar vests, and carrying short-barreled automatic carbines held at the low-ready position.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Joe,” Finch said, his voice grating like dry brake shoes. “You did nine years in a federal cage. You really want to take a fatal round in an abandoned grain bin for an old piece of scrap metal?”
“Finch,” Joseph rumbled, his massive frame sliding smoothly to the left, putting his own wide, armored torso between the laser emitter and the teenager. “You always were Mercer’s cheapest contractor. How much did he slip into your offshore account to sign off on Daniel’s bogus death certificate? Twenty thousand and a new four-wheel-drive patrol unit?”
Finch’s weathered jaw twitched, a nervous tic pulling at the corner of his thin mouth. “Daniel Vance was a stubborn fool who didn’t understand the realities of corporate finance. He thought a hillbilly machinist with a second-hand lathe could tell a five-billion-dollar aerospace conglomerate to pack sand. Mercer offered him enough money to retire to Florida like a king. Daniel wanted to take his patents to the federal trade commission and file an antitrust suit. He brought the fire on his own head.”
“So you admit it,” Clara said, stepping forward from the shadow of the concrete pillar, her eyes blazing with pure hatred. “You were there in the annex before the fire started. You held him down while Mercer’s goons tampered with the boiler relief valves.”
“I didn’t murder anybody, Clara!” Finch barked, though his eyes darted nervously toward the two tactical contractors beside him. “The blast was an industrial malfunction. The state fire board signed the report. Now kick that titanium cylinder over to my boots, Joe, and maybe I let the boy walk out of this county without an accessory charge to federal grand larceny.”
Toby didn’t look at Finch’s weapon. His eyes were locked on the floor three feet to his right, where a three-foot forged steel pry-bar lay half-buried under a drift of dry grain dust.
Outside the silo, the night suddenly exploded with the deafening roar of an unmuffled twin-cam engine. Marcus, waiting in the brush forty yards away, dumped the clutch on his motorcycle, sending the rear tire spinning violently across the loose gravel. The bike rocketed past the open hatchway, its straight-pipe exhaust detonating like rapid gunfire inside the confined hollow space of the concrete cylinder.
The two tactical guards instinctively flinched, their weapons snapping toward the open door.
“Toby, down!” Joseph roared.
Joseph moved with a speed that defied his massive bulk. He drove his shoulder straight into the chest of the left contractor, the impact sounding like two freight cars coupling at speed. The man crashed backward into the concrete wall, his carbine discharging a wild three-round burst into the high vaulted ceiling.
Toby dove across the floor, his fingers wrapping around the cold iron shaft of the pry-bar. Rolling onto his back, he swung the heavy steel bar with all his weight, catching the second contractor directly across the shin guard. The man let out a sharp howl of agony as his leg buckled, his automatic rifle clattering uselessly across the gravel floor.
Sheriff Finch swung his pistol back toward Toby, his finger tightening on the heavy trigger.
“Finch, you bastard!” Clara screamed.
She hurled the heavy brass padlock she had scooped from the dirt. The three-pound block of solid metal struck Finch squarely on his right collarbone with a sickening crack. The sheriff’s arm jerked downward as the gun went off, the heavy hollow-point bullet gouging a violent trench through the concrete floor four inches from Toby’s ankle.
Before Finch could recover his grip, Joseph’s massive scarred hand locked around the sheriff’s gun wrist like an iron pipe clamp. With a single, brutal twist of leverage, Joseph snapped the joint sideways. Finch shrieked in agony as his weapon dropped from limp fingers into the dirt. Joseph drove his left elbow into the side of the sheriff’s jaw, sending the older man sprawling onto his back in the dust.
Joseph pinned Finch to the floor with a heavy combat boot pressed against his throat.
“Who lit the fuse on Daniel?” Joseph growled, leaning down until his scarred face filled Finch’s blurry vision. “Tell me right now, or I swear to God I’ll drop you through the bottom hopper into the river current.”
Finch gasped for air, his hands clawing uselessly at Joseph’s leather boot. In his tactical vest pocket, a military-grade encrypted radio transceiver suddenly clicked open with a burst of digital white noise. A cultured, freezing voice cut through the speaker, crisp, elegant, and entirely detached from human feeling:
“Finch, give me your status. Have you neutralized the Vance woman and the boy? The secondary team is securing the perimeter of the rail spur. If they are in possession of the cylinder, eliminate them immediately. We will issue a statement confirming they died in an armed standoff with county deputies.”
Joseph stared down at the radio. He recognized that voice instantly. It was Harlan Mercer.
