Chapter 8 - Alleyway Reckoning
Grant didn't slow his truck down.
He rammed his heavy Ford F-150 straight into the front bumper of the black pickup, locking the two vehicles together in a crunch of twisted steel and breaking glass.
The shotgun fired—BOOM—the blast blowing out the windshield of Grant's truck, but Grant had already ducked below the dashboard.
David threw himself behind a stack of wooden pallets near the salon door, returning fire with three precise shots into the driver's door of the black pickup.
The driver groaned and dropped sideways across the bench seat.
Rebecca didn't hesitate. She pulled a compact silver revolver from her heavy tote bag and aimed it straight at David's exposed shoulder.
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Grant sprinted out from behind his truck door, firing the suppressed pistol he had taken from the impound lot gunman. The round struck Rebecca's hand, shattering the grip of her revolver and sending it spinning into a flooded storm drain.
Rebecca screamed, clutching her bleeding fingers, stumbling back against the wall of her white Audi.
Grant closed the distance in three seconds.
He grabbed Rebecca by the collar of her expensive trench coat and slammed her against the brick wall of the alleyway, his face inches from hers.
The fury in his eyes was so cold, so total, that Rebecca stopped screaming instantly, her breath catching in her throat in pure terror.
"Where is the rest of it, Rebecca?" Grant growled, his voice vibrating through her ribcage. "Where are the offshore accounts?"
"Grant..." she gasped, blood dripping from her damaged hand onto her white coat. "Listen to me... they threatened me too... Victor Vance... he forced me..."
"Shut up," Grant said flatly.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out the blue vinyl binder, and held it before her face.
"Natalie kept receipts," Grant said. "Every wire transfer. Every email. Every container number. She died protecting this city from your greed."
Rebecca looked at the binder, her face completely collapsing as she realized her entire life, her freedom, and her power were crumbling into the mud.
David stood up from behind the pallets, holding his radio to his shoulder.
"Dispatch, this is Unit 204," David said into his shoulder microphone, his voice remarkably steady. "I have two suspects down at the alley behind 412 Main Street. Requesting backup and medical immediately. Code three."
The sound of distant police sirens began to rise over the sound of the rain, growing closer with every second.
Grant released his grip on Rebecca, letting her slide down the wet brick wall into a sitting position on the wet pavement.
He turned toward the salon's rear door.
The heavy steel door swung open.
Camille stood on the threshold, holding Lila's small hand. Beside them, Ranger stepped out, his tail wagging slowly as he saw Grant standing safely in the rain.
Lila looked past the crumpled vehicles, past the bleeding woman on the pavement, and locked her eyes on her father.
She let go of Camille's hand and ran forward, her tiny sneakers splashing through the rain puddles, throwing herself straight into Grant's open arms.
Grant caught her, lifting her high against his chest, burying his face in her wet curls, sobbing openly for the first time in eighty-seven days.
"It's over, baby," Grant wept, holding her with a fierceness that made the rain itself seem to stop. "It's over. Nobody is ever going to hurt us again."
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Lila wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled her head back slightly, and looked straight into his eyes.
"I love you, Daddy," she whispered, her voice clear, strong, and completely free.
