Chapter 7 - THE WEIGHT OF A FATHER
The diner was suffocatingly still. The only sound was the distant, mechanical growl of heavy machinery echoing down Route 11—the bulldozers Blackwell had promised, idling like hungry beasts.
Emily stared at the demolition order on the table. Blackwell’s eyes were flat, completely devoid of empathy. He was a man accustomed to buying his way out of consequences, treating human lives like line items on a balance sheet.
"You're bluffing," Marcus said, stepping forward. His massive frame placed him squarely between Emily and Blackwell's armed guards. "You knock this building down with people inside, that's murder. Not even your money can buy off the Feds for that."
Blackwell smiled, adjusting his cuffs. "Who said anything about murder? The official report will state that a violent biker gang, currently wanted for assaulting a county sheriff, barricaded themselves inside a condemned building and accidentally triggered a gas explosion. Tragic, really. The pregnant waitress was a casualty of their recklessness."
He snapped his fingers. One of the security guards stepped back, pulled a heavy wrench from his belt, and walked toward the kitchen doors.
"The main gas line is in the back," Blackwell said casually. "Hand over the envelope, Emily."
"Don't do it, Em," Donna whispered, clutching Emily’s arm. "He'll kill us anyway."
Emily’s hands shook. She pressed the thick manila envelope against her chest. Inside was justice for Ryan. Justice for Marcus’s brother. But if she held onto it, she would die here. Her son would die before he even drew his first breath.
"I'll give it to you," Emily said, her voice cracking.
"Emily, no!" Marcus barked.
"I have to!" She looked at Marcus, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. "I can't let him hurt my baby. Ryan wouldn't want me to die for papers."
She took a step toward Blackwell, holding out the envelope.
Blackwell’s smile widened into a victorious grin. He reached out his hand.
But as Emily stepped forward, her foot caught on the strap of the toolbag Dex had dropped earlier. She stumbled, falling hard to her knees. The envelope slipped from her grasp, sliding across the broken glass on the floor.
Blackwell stepped forward to grab it, but Marcus was faster. He slammed his heavy boot down directly onto the envelope, pinning it to the floor.
"Move your foot, biker," Blackwell hissed, signaling his guards to raise their weapons.
Marcus didn't move. He looked at Emily, kneeling on the floor, clutching her belly in pain. Then he looked at Blackwell.
"You think you're the only one who can make a phone call?" Marcus said softly.
He reached into his cut and pulled out a small, black satellite phone. He hit a single button on speed dial and tossed it onto the table next to the demolition order.
The speakerphone clicked on.
"This is the Office of the Inspector General, Department of Defense. Go ahead, Marcus."
Blackwell’s face went chalk white. The smug arrogance evaporated instantly.
"Yeah, General," Marcus said, keeping his eyes locked on Blackwell. "I'm standing here with Richard Blackwell. He’s currently holding armed guards on us and threatening to blow up a building to cover up the theft of military logistics contracts and the murder of private contractors in Helmand."
"Understood," the voice on the phone said, sharp and authoritative. "We have tracked the beacon in your sat-phone. FBI tactical teams and military police are three minutes out. Secure the evidence."
Blackwell panicked. "Shoot them! Get the envelope!" he screamed at his guards.
But the guards weren't fools. They were paid mercenaries, not martyrs. Hearing the Inspector General of the DOD on speakerphone was enough. The two men lowered their weapons, exchanged a look, and bolted out the broken front door, leaving Blackwell entirely alone.
Blackwell lunged for the envelope under Marcus’s boot.
Dex intercepted him, grabbing Blackwell by the collar of his expensive suit and lifting him entirely off his feet. Blackwell kicked and thrashed, his face turning purple, but Dex held him effortlessly, like a misbehaving child.
"You lose, Blackwell," Marcus said quietly.
Sirens wailed in the distance, different from the local county cruisers. These were a deep, resonant howl. Black SUVs were already tearing down Route 11, kicking up dust.
Emily, still on her knees, felt a sudden, sharp pain tear through her abdomen. It wasn't the dull ache of the fall. It was a searing, tightening band that stole the breath from her lungs.
She let out a sharp cry, clutching her stomach.
Donna scrambled over to her. "Em? Emily, what is it?"
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Emily looked down. A dark wet stain was spreading rapidly across the front of her yellow maternity dress.
"The baby," Emily gasped, her vision blurring as another wave of agonizing pain hit her. "He's coming. He's coming right now."
