Chapter 17 - The Standoff In The Dark
"You shoot her, and you lose your leverage," Marcus's voice echoed through the massive cistern. It didn't sound like it was coming from the boat. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once. The acoustics of the ancient stone walls were playing tricks on the operative's mind.
The operative cursed in Spanish, slowly backing away from the edge of the water. He kept his weapon leveled at the wooden crates where Claire was hiding. "I don't need her alive to make you suffer, Commander! Step out where I can see you, and slide the encrypted drive across the floor! Now!"
The water rippled gently against the stone docks. A heavy, suffocating tension filled the cavern.
From the shadows behind the nearest stone pillar, Marcus stepped out onto the docks. He had abandoned the night-vision goggles; they were useless in the sudden, glaring cross-beams of the cartel flashlights. He stood tall, his faded olive field jacket dripping with black water. His sidearm was lowered, pointed casually at the stone floor. His steel-blue eyes were fixed on the operative with the cold, calculating gaze of an executioner.
"You want the drive?" Marcus asked, his voice deathly calm.
He reached into his jacket pocket. The operative tensed, his finger hovering over the trigger. Slowly, Marcus withdrew the small, sleek titanium cylinder he had shattered the ice sculpture to retrieve. The ledgers. The financial lifeblood of a multi-billion dollar criminal empire.
"Slide it!" the operative demanded, his voice cracking slightly under the overwhelming pressure of Marcus's stare.
Marcus didn't break eye contact. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the titanium cylinder across the wet stone floor. It bounced with a sharp, metallic clatter, sliding to a stop inches from the operative's heavy combat boots.
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The operative's eyes darted down for a fraction of a second. It was an involuntary human reflex. A microscopic lapse in tactical discipline.
And that was exactly what the Reeds were waiting for.
