Chapter 15 - BLOOD ON THE COLD CONCRETE
Beneant the Capitol complex, four levels below the manicured lawns and marble colonnades, the temperature dropped twenty degrees.
Special Agent Kane hit the concrete floor of Sub-Basement 4 at a dead sprint, his service weapon drawn and resting in the low-ready position. Behind him, Agent Norris led a four-man federal tactical team clad in black ballistic vests, their rubber-soled boots making almost no sound against the damp industrial pavement.
"Clear left!" Norris hissed, snapping his weapon toward a rusted maintenance corridor.
"Clear right," Kane replied through gritted teeth.
They reached the black Lincoln town car where Marcus Reynolds was supposed to have met his protective detail. The driver’s side door hung open at an unnatural angle, the interior courtesy light humming feebly in the gloom. On the oil-slicked floor, illuminated by Norris’s tactical flashlight, lay Reynolds’ blood-stained cover.
Beside it were two spent 9mm shell casings, their brass shining dully under the beam.
"No exit wounds," Norris observed, crouching down and tapping the wet crimson pool with a gloved finger. "Blood volume suggests blunt force trauma to the cranium, not a fatal gunshot. They took him alive."
"Because they needed leverage against Grant," Kane said, his jaw working as his mind reconstructed the scene. "Look at the tire marks. Dual-rear-wheel configuration. A heavy commercial van, probably disguised as a contractor or utility service vehicle."
"There are fifty maintenance vans moving through Capitol logistics tunnels every morning," Norris said, frustration lacing his voice. "How do we trace which pipe they crawled into?"
Kane knelt closer to the driver's side doorframe. He pulled a compact ultraviolet torch from his vest and clicked it on. A pale purple wash swept across the steering column and the exterior door handle. Under the specialized spectrum, a faint yellowish residue glowed like radioactive dust.
"Phosphorescent diesel additive," Kane muttered, recognition sparking in his eyes. "Only one maritime facility on the Potomac still uses this unregulated sulfur blend—the decommissioned naval supply depot at Buzzard Point."
"The old Sterling Logistics staging ground," Norris breathed. "The receivership paperwork was only filed this morning. The feds haven't locked down the southern docks yet."
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"They're moving him by water," Kane realized, rising swiftly to his feet and thumbing his radio. "Grant's bluff on live television bought Marcus a temporary reprieve, but the moment the hearing adjourns or goes into closed session, they'll realize the biometric fail-safe was theater. They won't keep Reynolds around as an asset once they realize they've been cornered."
Kane sprinted toward the tunnel ramp, shouting into his encrypted throat mic. "Norris, notify Coast Guard Sector Maryland-National Capital Region! Set Condition Orange on the Anacostia and Potomac channels! Commander Grant needs to stall that committee for another fifteen minutes—if Sterling’s dogs hit open water, Reynolds is gone forever."
