Chapter 13 - The Niagara Confrontation
The wind off the Niagara Gorge was fierce, carrying the heavy, perpetual mist of the falls and freezing instantly against the black asphalt of an abandoned industrial shipping yard just outside Lewiston.
Our black SUV crunched over frozen gravel as we pulled up beside a rusted corrugated metal warehouse marked with faded lettering from a defunct 1980s freight company. According to the encrypted file Roman had decrypted from Vance's terminal, this was the primary drop point where the remaining offshore titles were being held by one of Vance's unindicted lieutenants.
"Stay in the vehicle," Roman said instantly, putting the SUV in park and reaching for his coat holster with practiced efficiency.
I reached across the console, caught his wrist before he could open the door, and slowly pulled my own SIG Sauer from the secure holster beneath my tailored wool coat. I checked the slide, hearing the crisp, mechanical click of a round chambered.
"If you think for one second, Roman Calder, that I drove all the way from Lake Erie to sit in a heated leather seat while you play hero, you severely misread the last three years of my life," I said, my voice ice-cold and absolute.
Roman stared at me for three long seconds. Then, slowly, a reluctant, admiring smile crept across his lips.
"I would never dream of benching you, Mrs. Calder," he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Just... watch my left flank."
We moved out of the vehicle in synchronized, silent motion, hugging the deep shadows of the rusted warehouse wall. The storm clouds above were heavy and bruised with snow, casting an eerie, monochromatic pallor over the industrial wasteland.
A single side door hung slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out onto the frozen mud.
Roman motioned with two fingers—two seconds, then breach.
I nodded, sliding up to the opposite side of the metal frame. My breathing was steady, my lungs clear and strong, fueled by the adrenaline of the hunt. We weren't helpless pawns anymore. We were the architects.
One. Two.
Roman kicked the metal door inward with a resounding crash that echoed off the corrugated tin walls.
"Federal marshals! Drop your weapons!" Roman roared, stepping through the threshold with his Beretta raised.
Inside the dimly lit warehouse, surrounded by stacks of empty shipping crates, a single man sat behind a metal folding desk—not a syndicate enforcer, but a nervous-looking man in an expensive suit holding a burning trash can where a stack of legal documents was actively turning to ash.
"Don't move!" I shouted, sweeping my pistol toward the desk.
The man froze, his hands hovering over the flames as the fire licked at the corner of a thick parchment deed.
Without a word of hesitation, Roman holstered his sidearm, lunged across the desk with athletic speed, and thrust his bare hands straight into the smoking trash can, snatching the burning documents out of the fire before they could turn to total ash.
He dropped them onto the concrete floor, stamping out the stray embers with his leather boots, then dragged the terrified man out of his chair by the collar of his suit jacket.
"You're a little late on the paperwork disposal," Roman said coldly, pressing the man back against the metal shelves.
May you like
I walked over, knelt down in the soot, and picked up the surviving document. Through the smoke and charred edges, the golden seal of the New York State land registry shone bright and clear. The complete title deeds to the Niagara frontier properties.
"Game over," I said, looking up at the terrified lieutenant. "Tell Julian hello from the Hart family."
