Chapter 8 - CHECKMATE
The air at Pier 40 was freezing, the wind whipping off the Hudson River. The FBI had snipers positioned on the rooftops and strike teams waiting in unmarked vans. I stood under a flickering streetlight, my heart hammering against my ribs.
A black SUV pulled up. Petrov stepped out, followed by a woman in a sleek trench coat. Vanessa.
She looked at me and smirked. "David. You always were a glutton for punishment."
"Where are the routing logs?" I demanded, my voice remarkably steady.
"Right here," Petrov said, holding up a flash drive. "And the money transfer protocols?"
"In my pocket," I said.
Vanessa stepped closer, her eyes scanning my face. Suddenly, her expression shifted. She noticed the slight bulge under my collar where the wire was taped. "He's wearing a wire!" she screamed, reaching into her coat.
Everything happened in a fraction of a second. Petrov pulled a gun. I lunged forward, not away from the weapon, but toward it, tackling Petrov just as the gun went off. Fire erupted in my shoulder, a blinding, agonizing pain that knocked the breath out of me.
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"FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Floodlights illuminated the pier. Dozens of agents swarmed the area. I lay on the concrete, bleeding, gasping for air, clutching the flash drive I had ripped from Petrov's hand during the struggle. As my vision faded to black, my last thought was of Noah's face on that baby monitor. I had finally protected him.
