Chapter 3 - THE WEB TIGHTENS
Across the emerald expanse of Riverside Park, the chaos was beginning to curdle into organized panic. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance—somewhere out on Route 9, miles away from the quiet tree-lined streets of Mil Haven. They wouldn't get here for at least eight minutes. In a gunfight, eight minutes was a lifetime.
Nathan dropped into a low crouch behind a concrete trash receptacle near the pavilion, his heart hammering a steady, rhythmic beat against his ribs. He felt alive. Terrifyingly, exhilaratingly alive. But his mind was a block of ice. His primary directive wasn't vengeance; it was geometry and defense. Owen.
He risked a glance back toward the stone fountain. The boy was still there, tucked safely behind the historical masonry, hidden from the open lines of sight. Nathan had drilled emergency protocols into him through backyard games and camping trips disguised as survival exercises. Stay put until the ghost comes home.
"Alpha-Two is down. East sector. Repeat, Alpha-Two is neutralized," a harsh, staticky voice hissed from a comms unit clipped to the unconscious operative’s belt on the ground.
Nathan reached down with his left hand, snatched the radio, and crushed it under his boot heel with a sharp crunch. No need to let them coordinate too easily.
From the north entrance, two men in dark tactical gear were moving fast, sweeping the picnic area with suppressed submachine guns held at low ready. They weren't looking at the fleeing families anymore; they were looking for the disruption. They were looking for him.
"Hey! Assholes!"
The shout came from the left. Nathan whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto a sleek, silver Mercedes sedan that had careened off the paved park access road, plowing straight through a low wooden fence and coming to a smoking halt near the basketball court.
The passenger door flew open, and a man tumbled out, stumbling to his feet. He was wearing an expensive Brioni suit, though the jacket was torn at the shoulder, and his silver hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Julian Vance.
Nathan didn't know the man's name yet, but he recognized the archetype instantly: high-net-worth individual, corporate billionaire or tech magnate, used to buying his way out of every problem in the universe except the one currently walking toward him with a machine gun.
Vance was clutching a heavy leather briefcase to his chest like a shield, sprinting blindly toward the pavilion. Behind him, two operatives from the north vehicle were pivoting, weapons raised, tracking the billionaire with cold, mechanical precision.
They aren't just after the kid in the brown jacket, Nathan realized with a jolt of cold realization. The kid was the bait, or part of a broader asset recovery. Vance is the primary package.
"Get down!" Nathan roared, rising from behind the concrete receptacle.
He didn't wait for Vance to comply. Nathan raised the Sig Sauer, sighted down the slide, and squeezed off two rapid shots. The distance was roughly thirty yards—not an easy shot under stress, but for a former Navy SEAL sniper instructor, it was well within parameters.
Crack! Crack!
The lead operative stumbled, his shoulder exploding in a bloom of dark red fabric as the 9mm round caught him cleanly. He went down hard, dropping his weapon. His partner cursed, diving behind a picnic table and returning fire. Wood splinters exploded into the air around Nathan as a stream of suppressed rounds chewed into the concrete edge of his cover.
"You're out in the open, billionaire!" Nathan barked, lunging across the open grass toward Vance, who had frozen like a deer in headlights behind a rusted park bench. "Move your legs or you're dead!"
Vance blinked, terror stripping decades of corporate arrogance from his face. He scrambled forward on all fours, dragging his precious briefcase behind him, diving headfirst into the ditch beside the pavilion where Nathan had dropped.
"Who—who the hell are you?" Vance wheezed, gasping for oxygen, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
"I'm the guy keeping you alive for the next thirty seconds," Nathan snapped, reloading the Sig with a fresh magazine he'd scavenged from the downed operative's rig. "Who are they?"
"I don't know!" Vance lied, though his eyes gave him away instantly—shifting nervously toward the briefcase. "Competitors! Corporate espionage! They want the drive!"
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"They want you in a body bag," Nathan corrected coldly, his eyes darting across the park. Four operatives left, and they were flanking. They were closing the net.
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