Chapter 13 - The Coastal House-13
The rain began to fall heavily as Detective Vance’s unmarked SUV sped north along the winding coastal highway toward Ventura. Dark, jagged cliffs dropped off into the churning gray waters of the Pacific Ocean on our left, while fog rolled thick over the asphalt.
Two federal tactical vans followed closely behind us, their headlights cutting through the gloom.
"The property is located on a secluded point three miles off the main highway," Detective Vance explained over her shoulder as she drove. "It's built directly onto a sea cliff. Isolated, heavily secured, with a private helipad on the lower terrace."
"Is Marcus alone?" I asked from the backseat, my hands gripping the leather seats tight.
"Tactical team says he has two armed drivers with him," she replied. "They're desperate, Maya. They know if they get caught, they spend the rest of their lives in federal prison. Do not engage under any circumstances."
Ten minutes later, we turned off the highway onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with dense eucalyptus trees. The driveway wound upward before terminating at a modern, concrete-and-glass estate perched precariously on the edge of a rocky cliff.
A black SUV sat idling near the front entrance, its driver’s side door flung wide open.
Detective Vance slammed on the brakes, stopping our vehicle fifty yards back behind a stone wall. The tactical vans swerved around us, officers spilling out with automatic rifles drawn, shouting commands:
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE!"
Shots rang out instantly.
The sharp, deafening crack of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls of the estate. I ducked low in the backseat as muzzle flashes lit up the foggy rain. One of Marcus’s drivers fired wildly from behind the black SUV before being brought down by two quick suppressed bursts from the tactical team.
"Stay down!" Detective Vance barked, drawing her weapon and kicking her door open, joining the tactical unit as they breached the front glass doors of the house.
The sound of shattering glass and shouting echoed from inside the estate: "CLEAR! LEFT CLEAR! MOVING TO SECOND LEVEL!"
I sat in the backseat, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. The rain pounded against the sunroof. Through the foggy side window, I saw the second driver lying motionless on the gravel driveway.
Suddenly, a loud engine roar sputtered to life from the rear terrace of the house—the heavy, mechanical chop of helicopter blades cutting through the air.
He’s on the helipad.
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Without thinking, driven by a primal, reckless impulse I couldn't control, I kicked open the SUV door and ran around the side of the house toward the lower coastal terrace.
"MAYA! NO! GET BACK HERE!" a trooper shouted from the front door, but I ignored him, sprinting down the wet stone steps leading to the ocean overlook.
