Chapter 5 - The Devil's Lumberyard
The abandoned lumber mill on Route 9 was a rotting cathedral of rusted iron and decaying pine. The snow had started falling again, dusting the ruins in a ghostly white. Nathan’s black SUV crunched over the icy gravel, the headlights piercing the darkness to reveal a battered pickup truck parked near the main saw shed.
Nathan stepped out of the vehicle. The wind whipped his dark coat around him. He raised his hands, showing he was unarmed.
"Marcus!" Nathan’s voice echoed through the empty yard. "I'm here! I brought what you want!"
From the shadows of the shed, Marcus emerged. He looked like a cornered rat. His clothes were stained with blood, his eyes wild and bloodshot. In his right hand, he held a heavy steel revolver. In his left, he dragged Sarah.
Nathan’s breath caught. Sarah was practically unrecognizable. Her beautiful blonde hair was matted with dried blood from the deep laceration on her temple. Her face was bruised, and she could barely stand, leaning heavily against her abuser just to stay upright.
"Toss the drive!" Marcus screamed, leveling the gun at Nathan’s chest.
"Let her go first," Nathan said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "She needs medical attention, Marcus. She’s going into hypovolemic shock. If she dies, you lose your only hostage, and I will personally ensure you are flayed alive."
"I said toss it!" Marcus cocked the hammer of the revolver. The metallic click was deafening in the quiet night.
Nathan reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny micro-SD card, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. "This is your life, Marcus. The only thing keeping you from a concrete box or a cartel grave. You want it? Come get it."
Marcus hesitated. Greed and fear warred in his eyes. He shoved Sarah hard to the side. She collapsed into the snow with a weak cry. Marcus lunged forward, his gun aimed squarely at Nathan's head, reaching for the drive.
"You rich bastard," Marcus snarled, closing the distance. "You always looked down on me."
"I still do," Nathan whispered.
As Marcus snatched the drive from Nathan’s fingers, a blinding spotlight suddenly illuminated the entire lumberyard. The night turned into day. From the rafters of the mill, from the treeline, and from the back of Nathan's SUV, heavily armed men in black tactical gear materialized like ghosts. Vance stepped out from behind a rusted tractor, a sniper rifle trained directly on the center of Marcus’s forehead.
"FBI! Drop your weapon!" a voice boomed over a megaphone. Nathan hadn't just brought private security; he had brought the full weight of the federal government, having already sent the files to the Director of the FBI an hour ago.
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Marcus froze, realizing he had walked straight into a trap. In his moment of panicked distraction, Nathan didn't retreat. He stepped into the gun. With the speed of a surgeon accustomed to making split-second incisions, Nathan grabbed Marcus’s wrist, twisting it violently upward. The gun fired into the night sky.
Nathan drove his fist into Marcus’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The abuser crumpled to the snow, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Tactical teams swarmed him instantly, but Nathan was already gone, dropping to his knees beside the snowbank.
