Chapter 7 - THE VOICE ON THE WIRE
-7-
The cold metal of the landing rail bit sharply through my leather gloves as the digitized, synthetic voice echoed directly inside my left earlobe. The encrypted frequency that was supposed to connect me exclusively to Harlan Voss had been hijacked, intercepted, or—worst of all—compromised from within the inner sanctum of the Voss compound itself.
“Good evening, Miss Callaway. Tell Harlan his game of chess is over. We’re changing the board.”
"Who is this?" I whispered fiercely into the hidden collar mic, pressing my back flat against the concrete exterior wall of Building 12. "Identify yourself!"
Silence crackled over the earpiece for a agonizing heartbeat. Then, a low, modulated chuckle rasped through the channel.
“Consider me an independent auditor, Rue. You thought you were playing a high-stakes game with Detroit’s most feared man, but you didn't realize that empires rot from the inside out. Tell me, did Mrs. Gable pack your lunch today, or just your funeral shroud?”
Before I could demand another answer, Harlan’s deep, furious baritone violently overrode the hijacked frequency, cutting through the static like a buzzsaw.
“Rue! Get out of there now!” Harlan roared, the sheer panic in his voice entirely dismantling the cold, untouchable facade he usually wore like armor. “That frequency has been bridged! Abort the mission! My tactical team is converging on your position—get out of the building!”
It was too late.
The heavy steel-reinforced door of Building 12 clicked, the magnetic lock disengaging with a sharp, pneumatic snap. The door swung outward into the rainy night, pushed open by a man in an executive overcoat holding a suppressed pistol.
He wasn't Arthur Sterling. He was younger, sharper, with eyes as dead and cold as winter ice.
"Miss Callaway, I presume?" the man asked, his voice smooth, carrying an eerie composure as he stepped out onto the landing, keeping the weapon pointed squarely at my chest. "Arthur sends his regards. Though, to be entirely honest, you were never meant to survive this meeting. You were simply the bait designed to draw Harlan out of his fortress."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mind raced through a dozen escape routes, but the metal stairs were steep, the rain was blinding, and the gunman was blocking the only exit.
“Rue, listen to my voice,” Harlan’s voice hissed in my ear, frantic, raw, and terrifyingly urgent. “Two hundred yards to your left, atop the gantry crane. Sniper is locked on target. On my mark, drop to the deck.”
"Don't move a muscle," the man with the pistol warned, taking a deliberate step forward. He reached out with his left hand, his fingers curling roughly around my arm, intending to drag me inside the dark office. "Drop the folder, Miss Callaway. Your employer’s little empire is about to burn to the ground, and you’re going to have a front-row seat."
“Mark!”
Harlan’s roar echoed in my ear.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped flat onto the wet metal grating of the landing just as a deafening, thunderous crack split the rainy night air. The sniper round whined overhead, tearing through the man’s shoulder and sending him spinning backward into the doorframe with a sickening thud. His pistol clattered across the metal steps, sliding over the edge and into the dark water below.
"Move, Rue! Run!" Harlan screamed through the comm-link.
I scrambled up from the freezing metal, didn't look back at the bleeding man slumped against the doorway, and bolted down the stairs like my life depended on it—because it did.
Less than forty seconds later, a sleek, unmarked Voss security van screeched to a halt at the base of the metal stairs. The side door flew open, and a pair of tactical guards hauled me inside, slamming the heavy door shut as the vehicle tore out of the terminal area at breakneck speed.
I sat panting on the leather bench inside the van, clutching my chest, staring at the encrypted comm-link dangling by its wire from my ear.
"Report," Harlan’s voice came through the speaker, cold, flat, and vibrating with an incandescent, murderous rage.
"The mole," I breathed, my hands shaking uncontrollably. "Someone inside your compound gave the frequency to Arthur’s people. They knew everything, Harlan. They knew about the drop, they knew about the sniper vector, and they knew I was coming."
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A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the comm-link. When Harlan spoke next, his voice had dropped into a register so dark and chilling that even the tactical guards in the van shifted uneasily in their seats.
"We’re going home, Rue," Harlan said quietly. "And tonight, I’m going to find out which one of my rats decided to feed the cat."
