Chapter 6 - THE FINAL DESPERATION
A cornered animal is the most dangerous kind, and Grant Mercer was cornered with nowhere left to run.
It was a rainy Tuesday night in late November. I was back at the safehouse, finally feeling a semblance of normalcy. I was reading a book on the couch, the fireplace crackling softly, when the burner phone provided by the FBI suddenly buzzed.
I frowned. Only Agent Vance and Detective Jenkins had this number. I picked it up. "Hello?"
"Did you really think you could take everything from me and just walk away, Emily?"
The voice was rough, distorted by terrible reception, but the chilling cadence of it sent a violent shockwave of panic straight into my bones. It was Grant.
"How did you get this number?" I demanded, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stood up, immediately scanning the locked windows.
"I have friends, Emily. Even from behind bars. People who owe me favors," Grant sneered. He sounded unhinged, his usual polished arrogance replaced by a frantic, manic energy. "You took my money. You took my company. You ruined my name. But you aren't going to live to see me go to trial. I just wanted to tell you that myself. Look out the window, sweetheart."
My breath hitched. I dropped the phone and sprinted to the front window, peering through a small crack in the blinds.
A black SUV was idling at the end of the driveway, its headlights completely dark. As I watched, the driver's side door opened, and a large man stepped out into the rain. He was wearing a dark jacket and pulled a ski mask over his face. He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy, suppressed handgun.
Grant had put a hit on me. Even with his assets frozen, he had found a way to cash in a final favor from the underworld contacts he had cultivated.
"Agent Vance!" I screamed, turning toward the hallway where the two US Marshals assigned to my detail were stationed.
The front door exploded inward with a deafening crash, splintering wood flying across the living room. The hitman stepped through the threshold, sweeping the gun across the room.
The ensuing chaos lasted exactly ten seconds, but it felt like hours. The marshals reacted with terrifying speed. Gunfire erupted in the confined space, the sharp, deafening cracks shattering the quiet suburban night. I dove behind the heavy oak kitchen island, covering my ears as plaster rained down from the walls.
"Drop the weapon! Drop it!" a marshal roared.
There was a heavy thud, followed by a groan, and then silence.
"Clear!" one of the marshals shouted.
I slowly peeked over the counter. The hitman was lying on the floor, groaning, his weapon kicked far out of reach, blood pooling from a wound in his shoulder. The marshals had their weapons trained directly on his head.
My phone was still lying on the carpet, the call still connected. I crawled over to it and picked it up. I could hear Grant's heavy, frantic breathing on the other end of the line.
"Did he get you?" Grant whispered, a desperate, sick hope in his voice. "Are you bleeding?"
I stood up, staring at the bleeding hitman on my floor, and I felt the last lingering ghost of fear completely evaporate. Grant wasn't a god. He was a pathetic, desperate man trying to maintain control from a cage.
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"He missed, Grant," I said, my voice colder than the ice forming on the windows outside. "But you just gave the federal government the one thing they needed to ensure you never, ever see the sun again. Attempted murder of a federal witness. I'll see you in court."
I hung up the phone and dropped it on the table. The FBI relocated me that same night to an undisclosed bunker. They traced the contraband cell phone Grant used, added witness tampering and attempted murder to his already insurmountable list of charges, and pushed the trial date forward. There were no more games to play. The final battle lines were drawn.
