Chapter 6 - Cornered in the Shadows
The heavy steel side doors groaned on their rusted hinges as six men in black tactical gear fanned into the dimly lit interior of the sawmill.
The beams from their tactical weapon-lights sliced through the gloom, cutting through the floating sawdust like laser beams. They moved with practiced precision, boots crunching on broken glass and rotted pine scraps.
Nora, Claire, and I pressed our backs against the cold, grease-slicked iron casing of a massive industrial band saw.
“They’re sweeping left to right,” Nora whispered, her thumb holding down the hammer of our father’s old .38 revolver. Her voice didn't shake, but I could hear the sharp, shallow breath catching in her throat. “We have maybe ninety seconds before they clear this line of sight.”
Claire huddled between us, her hands clutching the wrapped hard drive against her chest as if it were her own heart.
“Jack,” Claire panicked in a barely audible tone, “my father’s head of security, Vance—he’s an ex-military contractor. He won't hesitate. If he sees us, he won't even ask for the drive first.”
I looked at the structural timber framing above our heads, then down at the iron tire iron in my right hand.
“We aren't going to shoot our way through six men with assault rifles, Nora,” I said, keeping my voice down to a thread of sound. “We don't need to win a firefight. We just need to change who is listening.”
“What are you talking about?” Nora asked, turning her head toward me.
I pulled my smartphone from my pocket. The screen lit up: 3:28 AM. Signal bars flickered weakly—one bar, bouncing to two, then dropping back to zero. The metal roof was blocking the cell tower down in the hollow.
“We need elevation,” I said, pointing up toward the rusted catwalk hanging thirty feet above the mill floor, suspended right under the wooden rafters where the rain was pouring through holes in the tin. “If I can get up to the upper deck, I can get enough signal to patch through to the state authority line.”
“Jack, that catwalk is a deathtrap!” Nora argued softly. “There’s no cover up there!”
“It’s our only move,” I replied, gripping her arm tightly. “Nora, if they pin us down here, Wade burns the building, burns the courthouse, and buries Eli’s story before the sun hits the hills. Take Claire and move behind the timber kiln down by the river exit. When I make noise, you run for the water.”
“Jack, no!” Claire whimpered.
“Hold that drive, Claire,” I said, looking her straight in the eyes. “Your father spent twenty years building a cage around this county. Tonight, we open the door.”
Before Nora could argue, I slid out from behind the band saw frame, ducking low into the shadow of a stacked lumber rack.
CRUNCH.
A tactical boot stepped onto a piece of dry cedar ten feet to my left. The beam of a weapon light swept over the top of my head, missing my shoulder by inches.
I held my breath, waiting until the flashlight beam moved toward the center bay.
Then I scrambled up the narrow iron spiral ladder leading to the overhead catwalk, my boots making almost no sound against the wet rust.
As I reached the top platform, cold rain slammed directly onto my face through a gaping hole in the roof. I pulled out my phone and held it high above my head.
The signal indicator flickered: 1 bar... 2 bars... 3 bars (LTE).
My hands were freezing, but my fingers moved with lightning speed. I didn't dial local dispatch. I didn't dial 911.
I dialed a direct, private landline number that had been taped inside our father’s desk drawer for seven straight years: the personal office line of State Assistant Attorney General Helen Vance—our father’s former classmate at law school and the head of the State Public Corruption Task Force.
The line rang once.
Ring...
Ring...
On the third ring, a sharp, crisp female voice answered:
“Vance.”
“Prosecutor Vance,” I breathed into the microphone, crouching behind a heavy steel pulley housing. “This is Jack Mercer. Auditor Thomas Mercer’s son.”
A second of dead silence heavy on the line.
“Jack?” her tone changed instantly from weary to hyper-alert. “Where are you? We’ve been trying to verify the rumors coming out of Mason County all night. We have reports that your son was involved in an incident—”
“My son was beaten half to death by Wade Harrow’s orders,” I interrupted, my voice razor-sharp. “I am currently cornered inside the old Miller Sawmill on the Elk River. Wade Harrow is outside with four armed units and six private mercenaries. He’s planning to burn the county courthouse at 4:00 AM to destroy his financial ledgers, and he’s holding us at gunpoint right now.”
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“Jack, stay calm,” Vance said sharply. “Are you telling me you have direct evidence of active racketeering?”
“I have the original wiretap tape of Wade ordering Deputy Miller to cut my father’s brake lines,” I said, looking down through the gaps in the steel mesh catwalk. “And I have Claire Harrow sitting ten feet below me with her father’s shadow banking hard drive. We are on an open line, Vance. And I’m about to put Wade Harrow on the record.”
