He retrieved the file Thirteen had given him from his coat. “Everything we pulled,” Blake said. “Financials, routes, names tied to both Laurel Tide and Bureau ops. You’ll notice your own accounts flagged. The Bureau wanted to use your shell companies to launder confiscated weapons. They were never going to let your people walk away clean.”
The commander stepped forward, leaning over, studying dates and sums and contact codes stacked like evidence in a courtroom. The man’s jaw tightened.
“This came from the Bureau servers?”
“Off-books archives,” Blake said. “The kind that don’t exist unless someone bleeds for them.”
Thirteen marched up the docks, eyes only whispering over them like they were nonconsequential. “We’ve got movement on the ridge,” he muttered. “Headlights.”
Blake’s pulse ticked higher. “Militia?”
The commander looked to Thirteen, “Your men? I hold you responsible.”
Thirteen only offered a curt nod. “I want to take them down myself, then you can deal with me. Brothers don’t betray brothers.”
Rapid fire erupted from the end of the docks, stealing the commander’s attention.
Blake scooped Viv and Mara into his arms and ushered them into a warehouse.
Automatic fire rattled the tin walls—short, disciplined bursts.
They stumbled in and slammed the door shut.
Outside, muzzle flashes lit the rain in strobe bursts. Thirteen crouched behind a cargo crate, returning fire in measured rhythm.
Bullets shredded the edge of the crate, splinters slicing his cheek.
“They’re cleaning house,” Blake said.
Vivian’s voice cut through the chaos. “We need to get Mara out of here.”
He spun to find Viv crouched on the floor, shielding the little girl, murmuring soft words between bursts of gunfire. For half a second, it was all wrong—the domestic tenderness of it inside a warzone.
He forced himself to look away and face the battle raging outside.
A flash grenade detonated near the bow of a ship, white light swallowing everything. The commander who’d stood beside them moments before went down hard. His men scattered, shouting over one another.
Blake blinked the flash from his eyes. “Viv—out the back door, now.”
She hesitated. “Blake?—”
“Go!”
He covered her movement, firing through the doorway as she darted into the main part of the building, Mara clutched tight against her chest. The sight hit him harder than the concussion of the next blast. He’d called the girl his child as a bluff, a desperate card to buy time—but watching Vivian shield her like that, something inside him twisted, settling into a new truth.
A man tumbled into the door and rolled. Blake lifted his gun, but Thirteen held up his hand. “I’ll draw fire. You get them out.”
“Not happening.” Blake crouched low behind the console and made a decision. “Viv, you ready to leave the agency?”
She offered a firm nod.
“Then get your phone out and finish executing this crazy plan of yours.”
Thirteen looked between them. “I hope it’s a good crazy.”
“This is Special Agent Vivian Durand, FBI. Pier Seven—active firefight tied to Laurel Tide. Noncombatant child and classified evidence in play. We need immediate extraction and tactical units on site.
“Three minutes?” She lowered the phone and tucked Mara closer to her chest. “It might as well be three years,” she grumbled.
