Chapter 30 - Blood and Ballistics
Vance’s eyes widened with genuine panic. For a man who had traded his uniform for corporate graft, the loss of secrecy was fatal. His hand trembled on the grip of the pistol.
"Kill them all," Vance barked toward his remaining men. "Burn the tunnel! Destroy the evidence!"
"Nobody moves!" Miller shouted, emerging from the smoke with his federal badge raised high in his left hand, his Glock locked onto Vance’s chest. "General Vance, by order of the United States Marshals Service and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you are under arrest for treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and interstate corruption!"
The guards hesitated. They were mercenaries, paid to protect property and intimidate civilians, not to engage in a firefight with federal agents when their employer was caught red-handed on a live broadcast.
Harrison Bell didn't wait for his men. He lunged toward the detonator panel mounted beside the excavation hoist—the emergency failsafe designed to bring the mountain down if the vault was ever compromised.
"If I go down, this whole valley drowns in stone!" Bell screamed, his knuckles whitening as he reached for the manual arming lever.
"No!" Lily cried.
I didn't think about my age, my aching knees, or the fifty years of labor that had worn down my spine. I threw my entire weight across the platform, tackling Harrison Bell into the steel railing just as his fingers brushed the ignition switch.
We hit the iron floor together. Bell was sixty-five, soft from decades behind executive mahogany desks, but fueled by the desperate fury of a trapped predator. He clawed at my eyes, his rings tearing across my cheek.
"You're nothing, Arthur!" Bell hissed, spitting blood onto my collar. "A grease monkey! A peasant who fixes flat tires! We owned this state! We built this bridge!"
I grabbed Bell by the lapels of his five-thousand-dollar cashmere coat and slammed him back down against the steel plate.
"You didn't build this bridge, Bell," I said, my face inches from his, my voice cold as winter iron. "Men like my brother built it. Men like Harlan poured the concrete. You just stole the money and hid your shame in the dark."
I ripped the arming key from the console and hurled it far into the drainage sump, where it vanished beneath the black, stagnant water.
General Vance backed away toward the tunnel exit, his gun slowly dropping as three heavy-duty spotlights suddenly flooded the cavern from the main entrance.
Dozens of armed men in tactical gear with yellow letters emblazoned on their backs surged into the subterranean vault: *FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION - HOSTAGE RESCUE TEAM.*
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons! Hands on your heads!" the loudspeakers boomed.
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Miller lowered his sidearm and let out a long, ragged breath. He looked at me, blood dripping from my cheek, still holding Harrison Bell by the scruff of his neck.
"Looks like your daughter's broadcast made it to Washington faster than Vance’s cover-up," Miller said with a crooked grin.
